


Mightier Than The Sword

by BazinMousqueton



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Teachers, Architectural Porn, Athos Whump, Bookshelf Porn, Drunk Athos, F/F, F/M, Fencing, I promise, Library Classification Systems, Literary Porn, M/M, Meet-Cute, Multi, Mutual Pining, Poetry, Polyamory, Porn Porn, Slow Burn, Staffroom, Strangers to enemies to colleagues who don't get on, There will be a happy ending, Warnings In Individual Chapter Notes, romcom
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-01
Updated: 2018-04-05
Packaged: 2018-09-27 16:34:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 22,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10032311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BazinMousqueton/pseuds/BazinMousqueton
Summary: High school staffroom OT3 romcom. Chapters 1-3 are The Inseparables' meet-cutes (with *lots* of smut in chapter 3); chapter 4 onwards is them beginning to work together. Spoiler alert: this doesn't go so well...Chapter10: In which Porthos hides his feelings, experiments with blackmail, and lives to regret it.Chapter11: In which Athos drinks.Chapter12: In which Aramis dances, Adèle takes her husband's car to the woods, and Aramis learns about polyamory. *smut alert!*Chapter13: In which Porthos wants to punch something, Constance is in the right, and d'Artagnan has fallen behind with the filing.





	1. Romantic Hero Type

**Author's Note:**

> Interesting literary fact: the line "the pen is mightier than the sword" first appeared in Edward Bulwer-Lytton's 1839 play Richelieu.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Porthos takes up fencing, flirts with Coach Aramis, and watches him take someone else home.

Porthos picked up a sword, and stepped outside his comfort zone.

"Any lefties here?" Coach Aramis asked.

Porthos and a woman about his age -- Porthos hadn't caught her name -- raised their left hands. They shared a smile. Something in common in a room full of strangers. 

Not just a room. A sports hall. This wasn't Porthos's natural territory. 

"Hang on," the coach said. "I'll fetch the left-handed foils."

He jogged into the equipment store. Porthos watched, hoping he was keeping the lust off his face. Coach Aramis had shoulder-length hair, a well-groomed beard, and his arse looked amazing in fencing breeches. 

The rest of them wore a motley collection of gear, unearthed from a communal kit bag, over joggers or leggings. There were twelve in the class; Porthos was the tallest, and the broadest. He was also the only person of colour. He'd started to wonder if he was the only black man in Tunbridge Wells. His new home was a fifty minute train ride from London and a whole world away from Tower Hamlets. When he walked down the high street he turned heads for all the wrong reasons.

"What made you sign up for fencing?" the left-handed woman said. She was pretty -- almost as pretty as their coach -- with long strawberry-blond curls and neon blue leggings. "I'm Adèle, by the way."

Porthos put out his hand. "Porthos. Uh, I'm not entirely sure. I've just moved to Tunbridge Wells for work and I thought an evening class would be a good way of meeting people. Fencing seemed... fun." He looked around, grimacing. The hall smelt of PE lessons: stale sweat and desperation. He didn't have positive memories of PE; he'd always been the fat kid picked last. "I'm starting to wonder whether Beginners' Dressmaking wouldn't have been a better idea. What about you?"

Adèle examined her -- perfectly manicured -- nails. "I've wanted to try fencing for years. My husband usually vetoes it -- he thinks French conversation or watercolour painting are more appropriate pastimes." She looked up into Porthos's eyes and grinned, eyes sparkling. "But he's abroad for business and I've had enough of being appropriate."

"Quite right," the coach said, handing a foil to each of them, but smiling at Adèle. "You'll need your killer instinct, not your sense of propriety." His smile was lethal; all intense dark eyes and perfect white teeth. Porthos was almost glad it wasn't directed at him. He wasn't convinced he'd be able to withstand it. The coach held out two gloves. "I picked up left-hand gloves. One extra-large for... Porthos, is it?" Porthos nodded. The coach gave him a brief smile, before returning his attention to Adèle. "And an extra small for you, Adèle. I'd recommend you take your wedding ring off."

Adèle raised an eyebrow as she eased her ring over the knuckle. "It sounds like you say that a lot."

The coach winked. "Only to my most beautiful left-handed students." He clapped his hands and walked to the middle of the hall. He had a feline gait: smooth, silent, ready to pounce. "Gather round. Has everyone found kit that fits? Yes? Everyone? Great. Ok, I'll show you the correct way to hold a pistol-grip sword, and then you can take everything off again for the warm-up."

Several people groaned. Getting into the kit had been a production -- the jackets zipped up the back, requiring the flexibility of a contortionist or someone's help -- and no-one seemed keen to put down their newly acquired swords. 

Five minutes later Coach Aramis had them running up and down the hall. Porthos, stripped down to his joggers and vest, kept pace easily, as did Adèle. Most of the others, even the younger ones, struggled. The coach began calling out exercises at the end of each length -- press-ups, sit-ups, and something called the plank that was easy for the first five seconds and agony thereafter. Sweat ran into Porthos's eyes. His stamina came from walking everywhere; he'd avoided formal exercise all his adult life. 

Beside him, Adèle made a burpee look easy. 

At the front of the class, Coach Aramis made it look sexy. 

Footwork followed the warm up. They learned to stand _en garde_ , to step forward, and step back. Porthos's calves burned. His thighs ached. They moved onto lunges. His knees shook. 

_Why didn't I choose the cineastes meet-up group instead?_

Coach Aramis called a halt. Adèle moved into a sequence of elegant stretches. Porthos bent double, hands on thighs, breathing heavily. His vest clung sweat-soaked to his chest and back. 

Struggling back into fencing gear gave him time to recover. Adèle zipped up his jacket; he turned to return the favour and discovered Coach Aramis had beaten him to it. Adèle leant into the coach's touch; he lifted her ponytail out of the way of the zip and allowed his fingertips to linger on her nape.

Porthos looked away.

Their first exercise, which the coach demonstrated on a wiry older man, involved working in pairs. They took turns to step forward and hit each other. The coach prowled the class, patiently correcting their feet, their balance, their steps, their arms, their hands, their sword positions, the angle of their wrists...

"Am I doing anything right?" Porthos asked.

The coach laughed. "Here, let me show you again. Left-handed this time. Adèle, you come and watch too." He tossed his foil to his left hand, coerced a young woman into volunteering to be hit, and did an elegant southpaw demo. 

"Impressive," Adèle said. "You're ambidextrous?"

Coach Aramis darted a sly sidelong look at Porthos. "I fence both ways," he said. Porthos's mouth went dry. Adèle showed no awareness of any hidden meaning. The coach smiled and motioned them to pair up and get back to training. He adjusted Porthos's stance and left them to it. 

He was a good teacher; knew when to intervene and when to give his students space to learn. Porthos, an outstanding teacher himself, relaxed a little. He and Adèle found their rhythm. Porthos stopped worrying about what his feet were doing, and started worrying about whether being jabbed with a sword would hurt Adèle. 

Adèle didn't seem to have the same concern. He was pretty sure his shoulder would show bruises the next day.

"Hit like you mean it, Porthos," the coach said. He waved his hand twenty centimetres behind Adèle's shoulder "Aim for here." 

Porthos stepped and thrust.

"You're holding back," the coach said. He motioned Adèle aside. She took the opportunity to head out to the water fountain, pulling off her mask as she went. The coach moved fluidly into _en garde_. "Again."

Porthos took a step and pushed through with his sword, stretching his arm out fully. His foil curved upwards.

"Better," the coach said. "Remember what I said about your killer instinct?"

"I'm more of a poet than a fighter," Porthos said. 

"I've always thought of myself as the romantic hero type," the coach said. He flourished his sword in an elaborate salute. "Swashbuckling gives you a certain... _elan_."

Porthos attempted the salute, cack-handed. "I'll have to take your word for it," he said. "I should probably stick to the poetry."

"You're a literal poet, not a figurative one? What do you write?"

"Performance poetry. Political stuff, mainly, with the occasional sappy love poem thrown into the mix."

"I'd like to hear your sappy love poems. There's an open mic night at the Fleur-de-lis on Saturday."

"Yeah, I saw that. Thought I might give it a go. What's it like?"

"As a performer, I don't know. I'm strictly audience when it comes to poetry. They get a decent crowd."

"Good to know. Will you be there?" Porthos kept his tone casual. He'd only just met the man, after all.

"I usually am." The coach leaned in, aiming his deadly smile at Porthos. "Will you dedicate a poem to me?"

 _Stay chill, Porthos._ "I'll consider it. Depends how good the rest of the lesson is."

"It'll be good, Porthos." Porthos shivered at the sound of his name on the coach's tongue. "I'm always good."

Someone on the far side of the hall called for help. The coach gave an apologetic nod and strode away, leaving Porthos planning his set list. He'd end with his favourite love poem, the one from when he first met his dark-eyed ex. He'd have to think up a suitable dedication -- showing his interest without embarrassing them both if it wasn't returned. He might be reading the signals all wrong. He didn't know anything about the coach: he could be straight, he could be married, he could be into skinny white boys...

Adèle interrupted his thoughts. "Ready?" 

They moved back into the exercise, the movements feeling a little more natural each time. Adèle pushed them hard; Porthos envied her co-ordination and strength. When Coach Aramis called a halt Porthos straightened with a sigh of relief. He put down the sword and shook out his legs and arms. His calf muscles throbbed; his thighs had turned to jelly; and his left wrist had stiffened. He rotated it, wincing.

"We're going to hurt tomorrow," Adèle said, stretching to reach the zip down the back of her jacket and stripping off her gear.

" _Tomorrow?_ " Porthos said, contorting and failing to reach his zip. "I hurt now. I'm not sure I'll make it to tomorrow."

Coach Aramis strolled across, laughing, and unzipped Porthos. "Next week won't be so painful, I promise. Have a warm bath tonight."

"I don't have a bath," Adèle said. "I'll have to have a hot shower."

The coach didn't hesitate. He didn't glance at Porthos. "A shower won't have the same therapeutic effect," he said, with one of his devastating smiles. "You're welcome to borrow my bath."

Porthos's jaw dropped. It wasn't jealousy, he told himself. Well, not only jealousy. He'd been a schoolteacher for fifteen years; his instincts for teacher-student interactions were hardwired. 

_She's not a child_ , he reminded himself. _The coach isn't in loco parentis_. 

Adèle beamed. "That'd be great," she said. "As long as it's no trouble."

The coach made an elegant leg. "It would be my pleasure."

Porthos turned away to hide his discomfort. 

_A teacher, even in adult ed, is in a position of power._

He folded his jacket and returned his gear to the kitbag. 

_She's married, she's his student, and that was ridiculously fast work._

"See you next week, Porthos," Adèle called. 

Aramis, one hand on the small of Adèle's back, waved. "See you Saturday? Don't forget, you promised me a love poem."

Porthos's jaw dropped again. Did the man have no shame? He flirted as easily as breathing.

_He's a predator. Beautiful but deadly._

Porthos re-planned his set list. There would be no love poetry. Instead, he'd lead with the cycle of betrayal sonnets he'd written after his dark-eyed ex had shattered their lives. As for the dedication... he'd hone his poetic killer instinct and give Coach Aramis a bardic flyting.


	2. Poet Not A Fighter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Athos goes to a poetry night, admires Porthos, and insults him twice.

Athos walked slowly through the early-evening gloom. He'd been back in Tunbridge Wells several months and had avoided the people and places he knew, until now. His right hand tightened on the paperback he carried. He took a book everywhere. It gave him a hiding place.

He turned the corner. Music spilled from the Fleur-de-lis, the jukebox on full volume. Blondie. Must be Samara's choice. 

The door opened as he hesitated outside. 

"Athos!" Ninon, clipboard under her arm, pulled him into a hug. "I didn't know you were visiting."

He tensed, then relaxed into her touch. He kissed her cheek. "I'm not. I'm back."

She gave him a shrewd look and didn't ask. "I'll add you to my list," she said. "We've got a good line-up tonight. Better now you're here."

"I'm not sure I'm..."

"Of course you're performing." She ushered him inside, calling to her girlfriend. Samara, her back to the door, deep in conversation with a broad-shouldered black man, waved without turning. The man laughed, dimples flashing. His navy t-shirt stretched tight across his biceps.

"Who's he?" Athos asked.

"Handsome, isn't he? He's new in town." Ninon checked her clipboard. "Porthos du Vallon. He's opening the second half. I'll put you last."

"To give me plenty of time to get nervous?"

"To end the evening with the best."

The door crashed open behind them. Ninon, with an apologetic look for Athos, greeted the new arrivals. Athos threaded his way to the bar, peeling his soles from the sticky patches on the lino as he went.

The pub hadn't changed in the five years he'd been away. Barely four metres wide and ten deep, the Fleur-de-lis had a bar running down one side and a shelf the other. People leaned on both, pints in hand, or stood in the cramped space in between. A mic stand occupied an empty semi-circle at the far end. 

"Bottle of red," Athos said. "One glass."

He elbowed out enough space to lounge against the bar, poured a glass of wine, and opened his book. The grey-haired man to his left, whom Athos half-recognised, seemed liable to start a conversation. Athos concentrated on reading. 

"You're Athos de la Fère."

It was a statement, not a question. Athos looked up into the deep brown eyes of Ninon's new poet. Porthos. He had a magnificent smile.

"Have we met?" Athos asked.

Porthos shook his head. "I saw you win the national slam championship at the Royal Albert Hall. You were amazing. That betrayal free verse had the audience laughing right up to the moment they cried."

Athos took a deep breath and girded himself to socialise. "Betrayal has rather become my theme."

The smile fell off Porthos's face. Athos froze. He'd said something wrong. His mind raced, trying to work out how to make it right. He came up blank. His glass was empty. He took a swig straight from the bottle. 

Porthos frowned. It felt as if the lights had gone off.

Samara eeled through the crowd to Porthos's side. "What's up?"

"I need some cards."

Samara caught the bar tender's attention. "Have you got any playing cards?"

The man nodded. He pulled a dusty bottle of Crème de Menthe off the top shelf, reached behind, and under-armed a pack of cards to Samara. She handed them to Porthos with a flourish. 

"That's some full-service compère-ing," Porthos said. "Thank you."

Samara ghosted a curtsey. "Anything to keep the talent happy. Why do you need cards?"

"I was going to do betrayal sonnets tonight, but betrayal's Athos's thing. I'd hate to steal his thunder."

Athos went cold. He didn't need this man's pity. He took another swig of wine. The tannins sat bitter on his tongue.

Samara nudged Porthos. "You're worried you can't compete."

"Damn right I am." Porthos smiled. "Athos is officially the best in the country. I don't fancy those odds."

Athos bowed his head, flayed by the laughter in the man's tone. When had he become a joke?

"And the cards?" Samara asked.

"Gimmick for a performance piece I do about life in foster care." Porthos opened the pack. The cards had a greasy sheen; their backs held stains. It would be impossible to play a fair game with them. Porthos flicked through, separating the picture cards. "I need all the people," he said. 

Athos grabbed his bottle of wine and pushed through the mob. He needed fresh air, some quiet, and fewer people.

He always needed fewer people.

# # #

"You look like you're going to hit someone with that," Ninon said, nodding at the bottle. Athos had his fist clenched around its neck; he'd drunk all but the last mouthful.

"Wisdom might suggest you leave me alone, then," Athos said. 

Instead, Ninon sat on the bench beside him. Its timber slats creaked. Flakes of burgundy paint peeled off and drifted to the ground. "And miss out on the pleasure of your company?"

Athos glared. "How did you know I'd be here?"

"I didn't. I was heading towards the Royal Drum. It's good to see you're not drinking yourself into a stupor."

Athos looked at his feet, his cheeks warm. "Actually, I'm planning to go to the Drum as soon as I finish this bottle."

Ninon pressed her lips together. "What happened? Our new poet thinks you're too posh to talk to him."

"He was treating me like something damaged."

"You're acting like something damaged."

Athos winced and drained his wine. "Why are you here, Ninon? Don't you have a poetry evening to run?"

"It won't be much of a poetry evening without a closing act. Come back Athos. You don't have to talk to anyone if you don't want to, although a quick apology to the gorgeous Porthos wouldn't be a bad idea. He's handsome, he likes men, and he's a fan." Athos didn't respond. Ninon shrugged. "And I'll stand you a drink..."

Athos let Ninon persuade him back to the Fleur-de-lis. They arrived as Samara announced the start of the second half and introduced Porthos. Ninon bought Athos a new bottle of wine and left him leaning against the bar. Porthos sauntered to the mic, cards in hand. He wore ripped jeans and hiking boots and had slipped a plaid shirt over his navy tee.

"This poem's called Looked After," he said, doing a showy mid-air shuffle. "It's about growing up in care. After a while you loose track of what order things happened. Was the foster family with the goldfish before the care home where I got beaten up every night? Was the teacher who taught me to play chess at my second primary school or my fifth?" He cut the cards. "Which was the foster home with the bunk beds? Was that after the one with the picture of the Queen on the kitchen wall?" He squared off the pack in the palm of his hand. "The memories rearrange themselves. So, I do this poem in a different order each time. 

"I need a volunteer."

A tiny blonde raised her hand. Porthos asked her to shuffle the cards. She did, looking shyly up at him. He took back the pack, held up the first card -- the knave of diamonds -- and began. Each verse wove a picture card into an anecdote; individually funny enough to have the audience in stitches; collectively heartbreaking. He finished with the queen of hearts, about three months press-ganged into a gospel choir with a friend close enough to be a sister, neither of them able to hold a tune. The pub erupted in cheers and applause. Porthos accepted it with a hand to his heart.

A graceful man eased through the crowd to Athos's side, clapping, and ordered a pint. He had wavy dark hair, pulled back and tied with a blue ribbon. He put his fingers in his mouth and whistled. Porthos heard and turned towards him. His expression darkened.

The long-haired man paid for his beer and moseyed away, not spilling a drop even when jostled. Athos admired his poise, and his denim-clad arse.

"I'm going to do one more piece," Porthos said, taking the mic off its stand. "It's dedicated to someone I met recently. To save their blushes I'm not going to name names. It's called Kid in a Sweetie Shop."

The audience laughed at every line of the Shakespearean sonnet; Athos suspected the unnamed dedicatee would be considerably less amused. Porthos ended with a rhyming couplet, handed the mic back to Samara and left the spotlight, to loud applause. He reached the bar, next to Athos, as Samara finished introducing the next poet. 

Athos drunk his glass of wine, refilled it, and gathered his courage. 

"That was a most impressive display," he said to Porthos. "May I buy you a drink?"

"I'll buy my own," Porthos said, barely glancing at Athos. He held up a folded twenty. The bar tender, chatting with someone near the door, paid no attention. Porthos raised his arm higher. Athos reached for it without thinking.

"Have you got any more cards up your sleeve?" he asked, brushing his fingers against Porthos's cuff. Porthos looked at him, eyes softening.

"You noticed that, eh? I like to end with the queen of hearts."

"Did you learn to cheat in one of your foster homes?"

He'd meant to joke, but it came out all wrong. Porthos stiffened. Athos snatched his hand away. He gulped his wine. He'd nearly finished Ninon's bottle. 

"Perhaps you've had enough to drink," Porthos said. 

"Perhaps that's none of your business."

"Samara and Ninon have put a lot of work into tonight. They deserve better than an obnoxious drunk."

"Even drunk I'm the best poet in this benighted backwater."

Porthos curled his lip. "Forgive me if I don't stay to see you embarrass yourself."

The bar tender arrived as Porthos left. Athos ordered another bottle and watched Porthos weave through the crowd, accepting compliments and shrugging off invitations. The graceful man Athos had spotted earlier, at the centre of a group on the far side of the bar, also watched Porthos leave. The man had his arms around the shoulders of two friends, yet his expression betrayed a loneliness as profound as Athos's.


	3. I Have My Books

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Aramis is wounded by the power of poetry, needs a distraction, and seduces Athos.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're here for the plot not the porn, stop reading at the scene break. (If you're here for the porn not the poetry reading, start at the scene break!) 
> 
> CW: the porn includes rough oral sex, a hand job, and anal sex, with a side order of emotional stuntedness and some question about how meaningful Athos's consent is, given how much he's been drinking.

The brunette on Aramis's right leant close to whisper to him. Aramis tore his gaze away from Porthos's retreating back, and focused on the woman. She was a friend of a friend; she lectured on violent Renaissance revenge plays; she smelt of summer afternoons. He'd been enjoying her company.

Until Porthos's sonnet had left him bleeding.

Aramis plastered a smile across his face, picked up the threads of the conversation, and reached for his charisma. He sent up a prayer for a decent poet, one who would make everyone shut up and listen. He needed the downtime. Unfortunately the twenty-something who had succeeded Porthos had no stage presence and little literary talent.

Aramis's prayer wasn't answered until the final poet shambled to the mic and began. Aramis, flirting on autopilot, broke off mid-sentence. The man -- handsome underneath a full beard and matted hair, wearing a crumpled linen shirt and a black waistcoat -- wove raw pain into exquisite stanzas; witty enough to coax laughter from the crowd, barbed enough to pierce the most well-armoured heart.

The poet finished his first piece, held up a hand to forestall any applause, and swigged wine from a bottle he'd set next to the mic stand. 

"You may clap at the end," he said. He had an upper-class accent at odds with his appearance. "If you must."

"Who is he?" Aramis asked the brunette. He'd been too busy counterfeiting charm to listen to Samara's introduction.

"Athos something," she said. "English slam champion."

She hushed as the poet Athos pushed his hair out of his eyes and resumed. Aramis rested his elbows on the shelf behind him and leaned back, intoxicated, while Athos plucked out his heart and presented it to them with self-deprecating humour.

The brunette laughed. Aramis blinked tears away. Like Athos, he'd loved only once. Isabelle had left him twenty years ago; he'd never moved on. Instead, he danced from one conquest to the next, living in the moment. Finding joy. Feeling truly alive only when he seduced someone new.

Suspecting, even before Porthos's intervention, he was dead inside.

Athos finished. The audience stamped and cheered. Athos, hair falling across his face, saluted them with his bottle of wine. He brushed off compliments and offers to get him a drink; refused to meet anyone's eye; and headed towards the exit. He had a book tucked into his back pocket. Aramis didn't stop to think. He squeezed the brunette's shoulder in a goodbye and plotted an intercept course via the bar. He reached Athos two metres from the door.

"Can I help you finish your wine?" he asked, holding out two glasses supplied by the bar tender.

Athos, startled, stopped and looked directly at him. His eyes were an unexpected green.

Aramis smiled. He knew the power of his smile. "You've turned down everyone who wanted to buy you more alcohol. I thought you might need my services to get through the bottle."

Athos flicked his hair back. He gave Aramis a disbelieving stare. "I'm certain I will manage."

"And I'm certain my company will improve the vintage."

Athos coughed; not quite a laugh. "Attila the Hun's company would improve this vintage."

"Then mine will enhance it beyond measure."

Athos gave Aramis an assessing look. Aramis moved one of the glasses closer to the bottle and tilted it invitingly. Athos poured. He filled both glasses and took one. Aramis chinked glasses before taking a sip. 

"I loved your poetry," he said. "I can see why you're thought the best in England."

"I wasn't even the best in Tunbridge Wells tonight," Athos said, turning his head away. His hair masked his expression. "Porthos du Vallon was better."

Aramis winced. "He was easy on the eye."

Athos nodded. "And the foster-care piece was a tour de force."

"I didn't think much of his second poem."

Athos's eyes narrowed. He didn't need to say anything; his understanding was clear. Aramis bit back a curse. Athos shared the last of his wine between them. He showed no sign of wanting to flee. 

"I could do with a distraction tonight," Aramis said, with a mental shrug. He may as well go for it. Athos had listened to Porthos dissecting Aramis's character: he already knew the worst. "I'm at risk of introspection."

"I sense that would be dangerous."

"It would certainly raise issues. So: distract me?"

Aramis ran his thumb along Athos's jaw, gently, enjoying the scratchy-softness of his beard. Athos tensed, then turned into the touch. Aramis gave him The Stare. Athos's lips parted. _Got him._

"My usual coping mechanism is less... sociable," Athos said, glancing at his wine glass. 

"You've had, what, two-thirds of a bottle?" Aramis said. "Perhaps that's enou... are you laughing at me?"

"I've had considerably more than two-thirds of a bottle."

Aramis stilled. More than two-thirds of a bottle was... problematic. "How much more?"

"Are you concerned about my consent, or my performance?"

Aramis sucked in an affronted breath, stepped back, drew himself up to his full height--

\--and reflected. Athos knew exactly two things about him: that he'd introduced himself mere minutes before making a proposition; and that Porthos, who it seemed Athos admired, had publicly declared him a libertine.

"Fair question," Aramis said, relaxing. "I'm worried about consent."

"Then you should know I drank two bottles on my own before sharing this one with you, and that I consider this a temperate evening."

"Now I'm worried about your liver."

"That is none of your concern." Athos folded his arms. He had the air of a man who had accepted a challenge. "'What use to learn the lessons taught by time. If a star at any time may tell us: _Now_.'"

Samara, handing out flyers for a local author's pamphlet launch, beamed at Athos. "Nemerov," she said. Aramis frowned, confused. Samara gave him a flyer. "Athos's excerpt. It's from _The Consent_ , by Howard Nemerov." 

She moved on. Athos exuded smugness.

"Fine," Aramis said. He curled the ends of his moustache. "If you're sober enough to give consent with an apposite quote, you're sober enough for me to take home. My place is in the old village." 

"Mine's nearer."

# # #

They stopped midway along a terrace of red brick two-up-two-down houses. Athos unlocked the front door, stepped inside, and switched on the light. Aramis followed and did a double-take. He'd been expecting to walk into a narrow hallway. Instead--

Aramis blinked. The space was huge, modern, and lined with books.

"Feel free to go back and look at the outside again," Athos said.

"Huh?"

"You look like you've strayed into the TARDIS." Athos wore half a sardonic smile. Aramis promised himself he'd wrest a whole smile from him before the end of the night. 

"What did you do with your walls? And your floors?" Aramis asked. 

The terraced house had been gutted. They stood in a double-height living area the full length of the house. A glass staircase led to a glass-balustraded bed platform at the back; a galley kitchen, in high-gloss dove grey, nestled underneath. Bookshelves filled every square millimetre of wall space. A ladder on a rail promised access. The books looked well-loved: spines cracked and bindings faded. The house smelt, comfortingly, like a bookshop.

Aramis brought his attention back to Athos. Athos, in his library TARDIS; the perfect balm for Aramis's dissolute soul. He took Athos's hands. Closed the gap between them.

Athos kissed him.

Aramis closed his eyes. He opened his mouth. Athos's hands tightened on his. Their tongues touched. Butterflies fluttered in Aramis's stomach. The kiss was sensual and... tender?

...and this encounter wasn't supposed to be about tenderness. It was a distraction, nothing more.

Aramis pulled his hands free, grabbed Athos by the shoulders, and shoved him against the nearest bookcase. He kissed him deep and hard. Athos grabbed his arse, pulled him tight and moaned into the kiss. Aramis ground into Athos, burying his hands in Athos's hair. He broke the kiss, breathing heavily, and reached for the button fly on Athos's jeans. Athos, pupils dilated, tilted his head back, exposing his pale throat. Aramis ran his tongue up it. Athos shivered. Aramis tore Athos's button fly open and slipped his hand into Athos's jeans. Athos sighed as Aramis palmed his cock through feather-soft jersey boxers.

Aramis dropped to his knees on the wooden floor. He yanked Athos's jeans and boxers down, just enough to free his cock, and bent close. 

The book in Athos's back pocket fell to the floor. Aramis paused to set it aside safely. He rummaged in his jeans pocket for a condom -- right-hand pocket for the flavoured ones -- and leaned towards Athos's cock. He curled his fingers around it, squeezing gently. It thickened in his fist. His own cock, constrained by jeans that were suddenly much too tight, responded with a twitch. His pulse raced. He stroked Athos to full hardness, licked a single line from his balls to his tip, and ripped open the condom packet. 

Athos quivered as Aramis unrolled the condom over his cock. "I won't last long."

"Nor will I," Aramis said. "How about we get each other off quickly and leave the finesse for round two?"

Athos smiled -- still only a half-smile, although the mocking edge had disappeared. "An admirable plan."

Aramis closed his lips on the head of Athos's cock and pressed with his tongue. Athos gasped. Aramis smiled. He bobbed down, filling his mouth with Athos. 

Strawberry-flavoured Athos.

It went surprisingly well with the red wine aftertaste.

Athos ran his hands through Aramis's hair, freeing it from its ribbon. Aramis moved up and down, sucking, his tongue lapping against the underside of Athos's cock. He breathed in, relaxed his throat, and took Athos's entire length. He swallowed. Athos moaned and clenched his fists in Aramis's hair, then let go. Aramis looked up at Athos, reached for Athos's hands, and placed them on the back of his head. He nodded as best he could.

"Are you certain?" Athos said. 

In answer Aramis clasped his own hands behind his back, swallowed again, and closed his eyes, giving himself over to Athos. Athos tightened his grip and thrust into Aramis's mouth. His cock slammed against the back of Aramis's throat. Athos picked up his pace. Aramis whimpered; Athos's thrusts shredded the sound. Heat rushed through Aramis's body. Athos shouted. He shuddered, pushing in hard. He pulled Aramis's hair. 

He quietened.

His legs trembled. He let go of Aramis and ran a caressing hand over his head. Aramis sat back on his heels, reluctantly releasing Athos's cock. The corners of his mouth stung. Athos peeled off the condom, and tied a knot in it. He tossed it towards a waste-paper basket, making the shot. He leant back against the bookshelf, panting. 

Aramis watched, his breath rasping, content to wait for Athos to recover. He massaged his aching jaw. Athos's eyes were dark, his face and neck were flushed, and hair clung raggedly to the sweat on his brow. He looked incredible.

He looked down at Aramis. 

"Finesse is... overrated," he said. "Thank you."

"My pleasure," Aramis purred. 

"What may I do for you?"

"Strip. Fast."

Athos's eyes widened. His surprise didn't stop him obeying. His fingers fumbled to open the buttons of his waistcoat. He shrugged it off and bent to unlace his shoes, his jeans and underwear still at half-mast. Aramis sprawled on the floor, taking in the display. Athos tugged off shoes and socks, pushed down his trousers and boxers, and stepped out of them to stand in only his shirt. It fell to mid-thigh, the creased linen billowing. He unbuttoned it. 

Aramis stood. He pushed the shirt off Athos's shoulders and let it fall to the floor. He stroked Athos's chest. His palms tingled as they brushed over hard nipples, lean muscle, and precisely the right amount of hair.

"Now undress me," Aramis said. 

Athos took his time with Aramis's shirt buttons, working down from the collar and kissing each span of skin he revealed. Aramis revelled in the sensations. His cock hardened. He dug a sachet of lube from his left-hand pocket. Athos knelt to remove Aramis's boots and socks. Aramis unbuttoned his own jeans and wriggled out of them. He stood in his briefs, his erection stretching their waistband. Athos, still on the floor, slipped them off. 

Aramis held out a hand and hauled Athos to his feet. "I want you against me."

Athos pulled him into an embrace. Aramis breathed deeply and shut his eyes. He buried his face in Athos's neck. He loved the feeling of skin against skin. 

"Use your hands," he said.

Athos brushed his fingertips up Aramis's cock. Aramis gasped. Athos took the lube out of his limp fingers.

"Tell me what you enjoy," Athos said, tearing open the packet. He squirted lube into his palms and held them together to warm it up. 

"Hold me tight," Aramis said. Athos did, right-handed. Aramis's knees shook. "Cup my balls with your other hand." He panted. "Squeeze."

Athos squeezed with both hands. A tremor ran through Aramis. He leant into Athos. 

"Quick strokes," Aramis said. His heartbeat thrashed in his ears. "Ah--" Athos twisted his wrist. "--yes--" Athos sped up. "--like that."

Aramis braced himself against Athos's shoulders, his fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. Athos didn't falter, his rhythm as impeccable as the cadences of his poetry. Aramis yelled. His head span. He spurted into Athos's hand and across his naked stomach. Athos stroked him through his orgasm. Aramis's cries slowed. His throat was raw. He rested against Athos. 

Athos took his weight and guided them both to the floor. They sprawled -- legs tangled, forehead to forehead, skin sticky with sweat and lube and cum. Athos made a long arm to hook his jeans and fished a handkerchief out of their pocket. He wiped them both down and wrapped his arms around Aramis. Aramis went loose in his embrace.

They breathed together.

Athos found his mobile phone and dimmed the lights. Shadows curled around them. Aramis's heartbeat slowed. He traced patterns across Athos's chest. Athos pressed a kiss into Aramis's hair. Aramis tried to ignore the warmth he felt at the affectionate gesture.

"I believe you promised a second round," Athos said. 

"Are you...? Really...?" Aramis trailed his hand down Athos's front until it reached his cock -- already beginning to stir. "Ah, so you are. Marvellous." 

"Might we move this to the bed?"

"An admirable plan," Aramis said, giving Athos a cheeky grin. "Do you have massage oil?"

Athos shook his head. 

"Olive oil?" Aramis asked. 

"In the kitchen. I'll fetch it."

Athos stood and padded across the living room, naked and unselfconscious. Aramis retrieved his jeans, and rifled through the pockets. "Lube?" he called. 

"Yes."

"Condoms?"

"Uh." Athos sounded embarrassed. "No."

Lube but no condoms? Aramis frowned: Athos didn't make a habit of bringing people home. Aramis wondered if he'd made a mistake. Were Athos's expectations different from his own? He reviewed their conversation in the Fleur-de-lis. No: the arrangement had been absolutely clear. An evening's distraction. Nothing else. 

Aramis dipped into his left jeans pocket for a strip of unflavoured condoms. "That's fine. I've got plenty."

He considered, and grabbed a couple of flavoured condoms as well. And another sachet of lube. Just in case. 

Athos, olive oil bottle in hand, led the way upstairs. "Seduction was always on your agenda for tonight?"

"I like to be prepared."

Athos looked back, and flashed Aramis half a wicked smile. "That, I can manage."

Aramis laughed and caught up. He threw an arm over Athos's shoulder. He felt... camaraderie. He pushed it away. Athos was a casual fuck. One with the confidence and experience to not be hurt when Aramis left before morning.

"Are you a top?" Aramis asked.

"I'm versatile. And you?"

"Also versatile. Turn and turn about?"

Athos nodded. They reached the top of the stairs. Athos hadn't made his bed: the duvet, in a grey linen cover, was bundled at the foot and the pillows were unplumped. Aramis cared not. He dived onto it and spreadeagled himself, posing for Athos. Athos wetted his lips. He set the olive oil down on his bedside table, took the condoms and lube from Aramis, and placed them next to the bottle. 

"I want to lick every part of you," he said.

A delicious shiver ran up Aramis's spine. "I want to feel your mouth on me." He paused. "Oh..." 

Athos knelt on the bed, between Aramis's legs. He picked up Aramis's left foot. "Oh?"

Aramis bent his knee. "I'm not as prepared as I thought. I wish I'd brought dental dams."

Athos halted, Aramis's foot half-way to his mouth. "Is there reason for caution?"

Aramis pushed himself up onto his elbows to look Athos in the eyes. "Not that I'm aware of. I get tested regularly and I'm careful. But... I _am_ an approved wanton. You?"

" _Not_ an approved wanton. I'm clean."

Athos leant forwards and sucked Aramis's toes. His tongue played along their tips, warm and teasing. Aramis arched his back. Athos wrapped his lips around the big toe and sucked hard. Aramis hummed.

"This isn't usually my thing," he said.

Athos pulled off enough to speak. "I could stop."

Aramis pushed his toe back into Athos's mouth. "Don't. You're making it my thing."

Athos didn't stop. Aramis let his eyes fall shut, breathed deeply, and relaxed. Athos, slowly, sucked and kissed his way to Aramis's ankle and up his leg. The lapping of his tongue made Aramis light headed. He whined and wriggled when Athos reached his inner thigh. A tendril of Athos's hair brushed against Aramis's balls. He bucked.

Athos pulled away and started at the other foot. 

Aramis gave himself over to the stimulation. His arousal built slowly. Athos, in no hurry, spent time sucking Aramis's fingers. He scraped his teeth over Aramis's hipbones. He tongued circles around Aramis's nipples, flooding Aramis with heat. Athos kissed up Aramis's neck and along his jaw. He traced the whorls of Aramis's ear with his tongue. Aramis's pulse throbbed in his cock. 

"Turn over," Athos whispered.

Aramis, his limbs slack, did as he was told. He rested his forehead on his hands. Athos straddled him, bending to plant kisses across Aramis's shoulder blades. He licked a wide stripe down Aramis's spine. Aramis whimpered as Athos's tongue teased the top of his cleft. 

Athos sat upright. He leaned across to the bedside table. Aramis, his eyes still closed, heard the creak of a drawer, the rustle and tear of a condom packet, and an unidentifiable _scritch-squeak_. He slitted his eyes open and turned his head to look over his shoulder. Athos, Swiss Army knife in hand, was using the scissors tool to cut the end off a strawberry-flavoured condom. 

"I have questions," Aramis said. " _Many_ questions."

Athos held up a finger for silence. He slit the decapitated condom up the side, folded the scissors away, and unrolled--

\--a rectangle of latex.

Somewhat ragged-edged, but well worth Athos's triumphant half-grin.

"In that case," Aramis said, "go right ahead." 

Athos warmed lube on his fingers and smoothed it on the improvised dental dam. He positioned himself between Aramis's legs. He spread Aramis wide. Aramis held his breath at the touch. He tensed, shaking. Athos ghosted his tongue around Aramis's rim. Aramis gasped. Athos kissed. Sucked. Eased the tip of his tongue inside. Set up an accelerating rhythm of thrusts and sucked kisses. Thrills flared through Aramis's body. Sweat beaded across his back and on his forehead. He ground his cock into the mattress. Athos moaned into him. The vibration nearly undid Aramis. He scrabbled for the scattered pieces of his self-control. 

Athos continued to suck while pushing a finger into Aramis. Aramis clenched. Released. 

Lost track of time as Athos fucked him with a single finger. Barely noticed when Athos added a second finger. 

Screamed when Athos crooked his fingers and rubbed against his prostate. Gasped for breath. Screamed again when Athos repeated the motion. 

"You may come," Athos said. His aristocratic tones made it sound like a command. Aramis's cock jerked. Aramis fought for control. He forced words through gritted teeth, staring back at Athos.

"I want... to come around your cock."

"You're not yet open enough."

"Force me open. Please." He shook. "Athos, _please_." 

Athos smiled -- an unabridged smile, finally -- and slowly slid his fingers out. He moved with precision and speed: disposing of the dental dam; smoothing a condom over his cock; slicking himself up with lube. Smiling all the while.

Aramis rolled onto his back. He needed to be face to face; needed to see that smile. He reached for Athos; twined his fingers around Athos's neck. Wrapped his legs around Athos's dainty waist. Made sure Athos saw his need.

Athos lined himself up. His lashes fluttered as he pushed inside Aramis. Aramis cried out at the burn, tightened his legs, and dragged Athos in. Aramis's cock, trapped between them, spasmed. He moaned.

" _Fast_ ," he requested.

Ordered.

(Begged.)

Athos obliged. He pounded into Aramis. Aramis pulled him in. Their breathing synchronised. Their chests, slippery with sweat, rubbed together. Aramis couldn't hold back his moans. He panted and yelled. Athos circled his hips. Aramis's focus narrowed abruptly to his cock, grinding against Athos's stomach. Aramis clenched around Athos and came, shouting. 

Athos tilted his body back for a better angle. He flattened a hand on Aramis's chest to hold him down, gripped his hip, and thrust urgently. Aramis, drifting, dazzled, stared up at Athos. Athos slowed, shuddering. He gasped and screwed his eyes shut. A tremor ran through him. He tensed, cried out, and relaxed, hanging his head and releasing his grip on Aramis. 

Aramis basked. 

Athos came back to himself too soon. He had tissues and wet wipes on the bedside table -- he obviously didn't believe in abstinence, even if he rarely shared his bed. They cleaned themselves up in a companionable silence. Aramis, for the first time, looked properly around the mezzanine. The bedroom's floor was carpeted; the walls shelved and crammed full of slim volumes -- poetry, collections and pamphlets. Aramis itched to get up and explore them; to get to know Athos through his books. He tamped down the urge. 

Aramis sat, leaning back against the headboard and spreading his legs. Athos, as he'd hoped, wriggled across to sit between his thighs, his back to Aramis's front. Aramis scraped his fingernails over Athos's biceps and kissed the side of his neck.

"'For my sin I had great store of bliss,'" Aramis said.

"Swinburne," Athos said. "I, also. _Great_ store. I..."

Aramis waited. Athos didn't finish the thought. His shoulders stiffened. Aramis searched for a distraction. One less highbrow than Algernon Charles Swinburne.

"It may be a few minutes before I can get it up again," Aramis said.

Athos huffed his nearly-laugh. "I am not convinced I will be able to get it up again at all. It has been quite some time since I spent all night..."

"Spending?" 

"Indeed." 

Aramis couldn't see Athos's face, but he could hear the smile in his voice and feel the tension drain from his body. He twirled a lock of Athos's hair and whispered in his ear.

"Those few minutes...?"

"Yes?"

"I plan to spend them oiling your perfect skin."

"Well--"

"Touching you everywhere."

"Ah--"

"Finding the places that make you squirm." 

"Uh--"

Aramis grinned as he reached for the olive oil. 

Some indefinite time later Athos laid stretched out on his side while Aramis rubbed circles into his flank. Aramis had decided there was nothing better than making poets lose their words. Athos's cock was stirring; his facility with language remained flaccid. His compact body gleamed in the dim light. He smelt edible. He looked--

Well--

Aramis's cock had been hard for quite some time. 

"I badly want to fuck you," he said.

His own linguistic skills had, perhaps, also waned.

Athos made a minimalist hand gesture, gifting his body to Aramis. Aramis's heart thumped. He responded with practicality: wiping oil off his hands and Athos's arse; making sure he had a condom and wet wipes within reach; coating his left hand with lube. Athos arched and gasped when Aramis brushed a fingertip up from his perineum to his hole. Aramis circled and pushed inside. Athos, pliant and beautifully responsive, panted. 

Aramis forced himself to move slowly. His right hand caressed Athos while his left gradually opened him. Athos writhed when Aramis added a second finger; he moaned at the third. Aramis scissored his fingers, stretching. Athos pushed down onto him. 

Aramis pulled out gently. Athos raised himself onto hands and knees, wordlessly presenting himself to Aramis. Aramis's breath hitched. He fumbled to clean his hand and get the condom on and lubed. His hands shook. He touched the head of his cock to Athos's hole and cried out as arousal sparked through him. They both moaned as Aramis slid inside.

Aramis dropped his head. He and Athos found a rhythm of long, slow strokes that made both of them shudder and gasp. Athos's hands fisted in the sheets. Aramis's hands curved around Athos's hips. He didn't speed up. He let the arousal deepen gradually. 

Athos's movements began to stutter. He threw his hair back and gripped his cock, stroking it fast. Aramis continued to fuck him steadily. The sight of Athos coming undone beneath him was--

\--astonishing.

Aramis's cock throbbed, his climax moments away. Athos's moans got louder. They moved together, sharing the perfect meter. Pleasure arced its way through Aramis. He yelled and came, bare moments before Athos did the same. They coaxed each other through their orgasms, Athos pushing onto Aramis and Aramis petting Athos, before collapsing in a sweat-soaked and satisfied heap. Aramis shifted Athos away just enough to pull out and get rid of the condom, then shuffled close and curled himself around his lover. 

No.

His _one night stand_.

The thought brought him back to his senses. He didn't fall asleep in Athos's arms. Instead, he listened as Athos's breathing slowed and extricated himself as soon as he was certain Athos was sleeping deeply. 

The treads of the glass staircase chilled his feet as he tiptoed downstairs. He dressed hurriedly; couldn't find his ribbon and had to leave his hair hanging in elf-locks. He paused at the front door and remembered the tenderness of Athos's first kiss. The moment Athos had finally smiled in full. The joy of the companionship they'd shared.

He considered leaving his number. 

He reconsidered. He shook his head.

He let himself out, closed the door, and left Athos behind.


	4. First Day, New School

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Porthos, Athos and Aramis meet for the second time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A shorter chapter, to make up for the absolutely massive porn-fest that is chapter 3. Thanks, everyone, for reading. You're the best!

Porthos strode towards school, swinging his arms. Chestnut trees, leaves still green, lined his route. He tilted his face into the last of the summer sun and paused to appreciate the the empty red-brick pavements. 

Beside him, the road choked with four wheel drives. Anxious parents dropped off their year 7 students, in shiny shoes and uniforms three sizes too big. The older kids arrived in packs, blazers comfortably worn in, carrying brand-new backpacks. Porthos would put money on every child at Queen Henrietta Maria Grammar having been bought a new pencil case in the previous couple of weeks. 

There was a joy in arriving at the start of the school year. As a child in care he'd tended to turn up mid-term, often mid-week, as he moved from foster home to foster home. Friendships would already have been forged, leaving him to make only enemies.

He strolled through the playground, smiling and nodding at everyone who would catch his eye. He remembered the route to the Head's office from his interview. He didn't take the main entrance; he slipped round to the back so he could go through his new department. 

_Head of English._

It sounded good. He'd had no chance of promotion at his previous school; had almost given up hope of getting anywhere. This job was everything he'd dreamed of.

English dwelt between the main hall and the art department, looking across the playing field. The corridor was scented by cut grass and lined with student work. Porthos walked past a thicket of nature poetry and stopped to read a Stormpilot rondel, smiling at the passion in its repeated lines. 

The door to the Head's office stood open; a good sign in any school. Porthos stepped through, expecting to greet the efficient older woman he'd met on interview and walk through a second open door. Instead, the Head's door was closed and a beautiful young man sat in the secretary's chair, intently sharpening a pencil. He was all lips and cheekbones; his long dark hair hung straight and glossy.

He glanced at Porthos and returned to his pencil-sharpening, using a desk-mounted electric sharpener.

"My primary school teacher had one of these," the young man said, taking a deep breath. "The smell of wood shavings and graphite takes me right back to the lovely Ms Forstadt." He sighed. "Most of the boys, and several of the girls, had a crush on her. I'd draw and draw to wear my pencil down so she'd sharpen it."

"You could have simply broken the lead," Porthos said.

The secretary looked scandalised. "That would have been cheating." He pulled out a viciously-pointed pencil and smiled in satisfaction. "I'm d'Artagnan. The temp. It's my first day."

"Porthos du Vallon. Mine too."

D'Artagnan consulted a shorthand notebook. "Are you the new librarian or the head of English?"

"He must be English," a new voice said. Porthos spun. A familiar figure leaned against the door frame. "I'm the librarian. Athos de la Fère."

Porthos closed his eyes in a long blink. The drunken toff? _You have got to be kidding me._

De la Fère gave him a wry eyebrow-lift. "Mr du Vallon."

"Mr de la Fère."

"What happened to Mrs Rastoil?" de la Fère asked. He had combed his hair and trimmed his beard. He wore a battered tweed jacket and gold-rimmed glasses: the platonic ideal of a school librarian.

D'Artagnan shrugged. "They never tell temps why there's an empty desk. Wouldn't want to scare us off." He checked his notepad again. "The drama teacher's going to take you on a tour while the kids are in assembly. He's in with the Head--" he gestured at the door behind him. It opened. D'Artagnan beamed and posed, the glamorous assistant in a successful magic trick. 

"I give you Aramis d'Herblay, principal drama teacher," he said. 

The promiscuous swashbuckler stepped through the doorway. 

_Unbelievable._

Porthos barely kept himself from sighing. Coach Aramis was gorgeous in drainpipe trousers and a crisply-ironed shirt. He wore cufflinks, sleeve garters, and a narrow charcoal tie. He glanced at Porthos, looked away quickly, and stared at de la Fère in horror. Aramis paled. De la Fère flushed.

"You all know each other?" d'Artagnan said. 

"We've met," de la Fère said, tearing his gaze away from Aramis. He didn't elaborate. Neither man met Porthos's eyes. 

"That's great," d'Artagnan said, too innocently. Surely he couldn't be oblivious to the atmosphere? The tension was suffocating. "The Head asked me to arrange for the three of you to meet to choose a play." They stared at him. D'Artagnan held out his hands, palms up. "For this year's school production? I've reserved the drama studio at four pm on Friday."

_Great._

De la Fère folded his arms. Aramis put his hands on his hips. Porthos scrubbed a hand over his face. 

_First day at a new school and I've already made enemies. Some things never change._

D'Artagnan poked another pencil into the sharpener. Its screech cut through the silence.


	5. Beguile Thy Sorrow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Athos fantasises about Aramis, disagrees with Porthos, and crosses swords with the Head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: "gay" used as a slur.

Athos sat behind the counter of his new library, head in hands. A bell rang. His head throbbed. It was the... second? third? bell of the day. Did that make it break time? Or lunch hour? He'd lost track. Chattering students rushed past the library's doors; none entered.

No-one had been in all morning. 

The lights switched themselves off. Again. Athos sighed and raised a hand to trigger the movement sensor. He reached for the tepid cup of tea at his elbow and swirled it, breathing in the bergamot scent and wishing he could fortify it with brandy. 

The library sprawled over two levels, linked by three steps and an ugly retro-fitted ramp. The only natural light -- a circle of watery sunlight traversing the floor -- came from a porthole window above the shelves at the back. Athos contemplated marking out a sundial on the parquet. It would be in keeping with the library's general air of obsolescence. 

The one computer was on the counter next to Athos. The cantilever-style steel shelving had been painted a dull khaki, reminiscent of army surplus supplies circa 1946. The books had been rigorously Dewey Decimalised, with every spine label at exactly the same height. The most recent novel Athos could find was The Remains of the Day; the YA section consisted entirely of Judy Blume; and the poetry stopped in 1963 -- "between the end of the 'Chatterley' ban and the Beatles' first LP." 

Athos drained his tea and closed his eyes. An image of Aramis -- _Mr d'Herblay_ \-- formed unbidden. Athos had spent Sunday fantasising, stroking himself off to the memory of his mouth on Aramis's skin, and contriving elaborate, unworkable, schemes to casually bump into him. 

None of his fantasies had involved sharing a staffroom. 

His traitorous mind briefly served him a stationery cupboard encounter: Aramis standing, Athos on his knees; the smell of highlighter pens and envelope glue...

Athos pushed the thought away. Any hope he might have entertained over the weekend had been dispelled by Aramis's dismay earlier.

Aramis had not spent his weekend dreaming of Athos.

The doors swung open, slamming into the wall. Athos jumped. The temp, d'Artagnan, bounced into the room, carrying a sheaf of papers. 

"Posters," he said, laying them on the counter. The top sheet trumpeted orchestra auditions, in Comic Sans, on bright yellow photocopier paper. "For your noticeboard?"

Athos set his cup down in its saucer. "I have a noticeboard?"

They both looked around the library. 

"There," d'Artagnan said, pointing. A cork board rested on the floor behind a card catalogue cabinet; only the edge of its frame projected. D'Artagnan pulled it out and blew the dust off its one curling poster. "Upper school disco, 1988, anyone?"

"The previous librarian didn't hold with the twenty-first century," Athos said. "Or the latter part of the twentieth, for that matter."

D'Artagnan leant the cork board against the counter and looked Athos up and down, making a performance of clocking his tweed jacket and the china tea set. 

"You fit right in," he said. Athos glared. D'Artagnan feinted his head towards the card catalogue. "There's a bunch of tinsel and stuff behind there as well. Do you want it?"

"Yes," Athos said. "In December. Come back then."

D'Artagnan grinned and bounded out. 

Athos flicked through the posters. A sign-up sheet for fencing club caught his eye -- he remembered his school competing against Queen Henrietta Maria Grammar. They'd been pretty good for a state school although Athos's team had, effortlessly, won all six weapons.

The doors crashed open again. 

"I forgot something," d'Artagnan said. 

Athos peered over his glasses. "You forgot I wouldn't need you again until December?"

"That too." D'Artagnan swept his hair off his face. "I forgot the baby gays."

Athos raised an eyebrow. 

"We need a new venue for LGBTQ+ meetings," d'Artagnan said. "An adorably butch sixth former with a Penguin Sappho in her blazer pocket begged the Head for somewhere with central heating. Apparently they were relegated to the minibus garage last year."

"That won't do." Athos took a request slip from the pile and wrote a couple of lines on the back. "Give her this." 

"'Come, and take choice of all my library, And so beguile thy sorrow.' That's beautiful. Yours?"

"Philistine." Athos shook his head. "Shakespeare."

D'Artagnan didn't return a third time. Athos made a new pot of Earl Grey and reverted to brooding. He paced the stacks, cup in hand. 176: Ethics of sex and reproduction. 188: Stoic philosophy. 302: Social interaction.

He hated the Dewey Decimal system. 

He wouldn't have it in his library.

He strode to the counter, put down his teacup, and removed his jacket. He rolled up his shirt sleeves. He took off his glasses. 

He started near the door: unshelving books and piling them on the big table in the middle of the room. He had cleared nearly a whole wall when the bell rang, the door opened, and students flooded in.

Athos ducked instinctively, hiding behind the mountain of books he'd created. He froze. The students kept coming, calling to each other. The room filled with the stink of Lynx deodorant and Impulse body spray. Athos straightened, reluctantly. 

"Ah, Mr de la Fère," Porthos du Vallon said, closing the doors behind the last student. "We're here for our library induction."

"Your library induction," Athos said. Something snagged in his memory. There had been an email... He waded through shoulder-high students to get back to the counter, picked up his glasses, and pulled out a handkerchief to polish them while he tried to remember the details. The children seemed young; their uniforms pristine. New year 7s? English top set? The feeder primary school didn't have its own library?

The students gradually quietened. Athos drew out his glasses-polishing, pretending it had been a ploy to get their attention. He waited for silence.

"Thank you," he said, then moved into his standard welcome-to-libraries spiel. He'd worked it out years ago; in iambic pentameter for his own amusement. He could recite it in his sleep. 

A dark-haired, snub-nosed boy raised his hand the moment Athos finished speaking. 

"Why aren't the books on the shelves?" he asked. The other students giggled.

"I'm re-classifying," Athos said. 

"What does that mean?"

"It means I'm putting the books in a different order."

"Why?"

"So it's easier to find the ones you need. And to come across ones you didn't realise you wanted."

Porthos picked up a book and looked at its classmark. "You don't like Dewey Decimal?"

"I don't think a high school is the right place for it." Athos tilted his head. "And, no, I don't like it. In fact, I detest it. No-one, other than librarians, understands the classes."

Porthos smiled. "165," he said.

 _Fallacies & sources of error?_ Athos folded his arms. 

"141," he said. _Idealism._ "You may have 001--" _knowledge_ "--but you're a rarity."

Porthos's smile widened. It really was glorious. Athos couldn't help fixating on his mouth. The students had begun to mutter and giggle. 

"Are they even speaking English?" the snub-nosed boy asked. A chubby girl sat down at Athos's computer and started typing. 

"Oh. My. God," she said, Wikipedia on the screen in front of her. "Sir and the librarian are having a Dewey Decimal duel."

The snub-nosed boy groaned. "That is _so gay_ ," he said.

Porthos turned a very hard stare on the boy. "We do not use the word 'gay' as an insult," he said. "Come to my office at the end of the day and I'll assign you extra homework."

The other students jeered. The bell rang.

"Class dismissed," Porthos said. 

Athos returned to his counter as the children filed out. Wikipedia girl caught his attention. 

"That boy has no 395," she said. _Manners._ Athos nodded. She stood. "But he was right. You and Sir? That was the gayest thing I have ever seen. It's not an insult. It's a literal description."

She sashayed out of the library, leaving Athos open-mouthed in her wake. 

"What did she say?" Porthos asked. His smile had returned. He was wearing a soft emerald-green jumper over a white shirt; he looked huggable. Athos felt his face heat up. 

"You don't want to know," he said. He took a deep breath. "Look, I was a dick the other evening. I'm sorry. Could we start again?"

The doors burst open. D'Artagnan, of course.

Athos shushed him. 

" _What?_ " d'Artagnan said.

"Are you incapable of entering a room quietly?" 

D'Artagnan shrugged. "Why would I need to be quiet?"

Porthos chuckled, deep and warm. 

"What do you want?" Athos asked.

D'Artagnan checked his shorthand notebook. "Staff volunteers to help with extra-curricular sports. I'm to ask everyone."

"Not me," Athos said. "I'm the librarian, not a teacher. I don't do activities."

"The Head said everyone."

"He meant every teacher. Ask Mr du Vallon."

"Thanks a bundle," Porthos said. Athos clenched his fists in frustration. He'd said the wrong thing again. 

D'Artagnan waited, pencil poised.

"I'll do chess club," Porthos said. "Chess is totally a sport."

D'Artagnan looked at Athos.

"No," Athos said.

Porthos opened the door -- gently-- for d'Artagnan, and followed him out. Athos listened until he could no longer hear their voices, and then swore violently. Why couldn't he get through a conversation with Porthos without either insulting him or landing him with extra work?

He spent the rest of the day shifting books around the library, ending up with precarious towers filling the table and spreading to the floor. The physical labour improved his mood; by final bell he was humming as he worked. He stopped and surveyed the room. He'd got used to the lack of daylight -- and the lights had stayed on while he kept moving -- and even the olive drab shelves didn't look so bad.

The access ramp was still hideous.

Athos unearthed the Christmas decorations d'Artagnan had found, hoping for a string of fairy lights. He found four. He began wrapping them along the ramp's balustrade, weaving them through the railings.

"I had always believed it customary to keep the books on the shelves."

Athos started. 

"Headmaster Richelieu! I didn't hear you come in."

The Head smiled, thin-lipped. He stood next to the table, gazing at the piles of books with disfavour.

"I'm updating the classification system," Athos said. "Genrefication is more appropriate for a school than Dewey Decimal."

Richelieu pressed his hands together. "Indeed? And can I expect to see the results of your labour in improved student exam performance?"

"Not everything can be measured in..." Athos trailed off. Richelieu's stare had turned icy. "That is, I'm sure re-classification will have a positive impact."

"I'm glad we agree on the importance of performance outcomes," Richelieu said. "Here at Queen Henrietta Maria we believe in _mens sana in corpore sano_. I was most disappointed to find out you are reluctant to assist our extra-curricular programme."

"Not reluctant, exactly."

"I'm delighted to hear it." Richelieu flashed a predatory smile. Athos attempted to wait him out. He failed. 

"I could help with fencing club?" he said.

"Excellent." Richelieu turned to leave, his footsteps silent on the parquet floor. "Mr d'Herblay will, I am certain, appreciate your assistance."

Athos stared after Richelieu, too stunned to even swear. Aramis coached fencing club?

Athos's heart thumped. 

Excitement?

Or terror?


	6. i do not know what it is about you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Aramis pines for Athos, takes a real dislike to Porthos, and announces his love.

"Aaaaaaaaahhhhhhh."

Aramis applauded enthusiastically as a class of fifteen-year-olds writhed in their death agonies, imaginary daggers planted firmly in their hearts.

"Blood," he prompted.

Scarlet fabric bloomed on teenage breasts and puddled on the drama studio floor. Limbs stilled. Last sighs were sighed. Eyes closed. 

The bell rang. 

Thirty-three teenagers jumped up and rushed for the door, laughing as they reprised their death rattles for each other's amusement.

"Everything back in the props box," Aramis yelled. Most of the students complied. "And we're going to start looking at A Taste of Honey next week, so make sure you've read Act One."

He wandered the room, picking up the last few curls of red velvet and putting off going to the staffroom. Would Athos be there? It would be better if he weren't; making small talk with him over bad coffee would be excruciating. Although, seeing him would be...

Aramis halted and thought. He pictured Athos underneath him, moments from climax...

He breathed out.

Seeing Athos would be a Very Bad Idea Indeed.

(Those glasses, though. So handsome.)

Aramis checked his reflection in the mirrored side wall. He straightened his tie and moustache, licked his little fingers, and ran them along his eyebrows. He half turned, smoothed his tight trousers over his arse, and smiled over his shoulder. He looked good.

He swithered in the corridor -- should he go the long way round to avoid the library? He decided against. He needed to be able to behave normally around Athos. He couldn't allow a one night stand to affect his work.

He slowed as he approached the library's doors, hoping and fearing Athos would appear. 

"Mr d'Herblay."

Aramis turned. The Head glided towards him, footsteps silent, one forefinger raised.

"Mr Richelieu," Aramis said. "How may I be of assistance?"

"It is I who can assist you." Richelieu paused. He rarely revealed information without prompting. His predilection for secrets had resulted in a staffroom rumour that he'd previously been employed by MI6. Aramis wasn't convinced. He couldn't imagine Richelieu answering to anyone, and he was reasonably sure that heads of intelligence agencies didn't go on to have second careers running grammar schools, even successful grammar schools in sought-after middle-class areas.

Aramis raised an eyebrow in polite interest, wondering what the Head's assistance would cost. "Pray tell."

"I have secured a second fencing coach." Richelieu smiled, justifiably smug. Aramis had spent years complaining about running the fencing club alone.

"You persuaded Mr Tréville?" This was going to be _very_ expensive. 

Richelieu shook his head. 

And remained silent.

Aramis schooled himself to patience. "Tréville is the only other teacher who fences." Unless you counted Porthos du Vallon, after one lesson... 

_God, no. Not Porthos. Please, not Porthos. His disapproval would engulf the sports hall._

Richelieu tilted his head in agreement. "There are no suitable teachers."

"You've hired a fencing coach?"

"In a manner of speaking. Our new librarian, Athos de la Fère."

Aramis attempted to keep his face neutral. Richelieu's reaction -- a self-satisfied nod -- suggested Aramis had revealed far too much. Richelieu swept away. Aramis stood, stunned. He'd be training with Athos twice a week? With Athos wielding a sword? And wearing white breeches?

A group of year 9 boys turned the corner, sniggering, and fell silent on seeing Aramis. He shook himself and strode towards them. 

"Playground's the other way, lads." 

They protested, but retreated. Aramis saw them outside before, finally, braving the staffroom. He let himself in quietly and ducked straight into the empty kitchen. Athos was nowhere to be seen. Porthos du Vallon sat by the window, surrounded by a semi-circle of admirers. From their body language, Porthos hadn't come out. Aramis wondered whether he would, or whether he chose to remain professionally closeted. 

Aramis put the kettle on, took his "All the world's a stage" mug from the cupboard, and eavesdropped shamelessly.

"You're a poet, Mr du Vallon?" 

Aramis peeked through the open doorway, teaspoon in hand. The Head of Maths had angled herself towards Porthos. Her feet pointed in his direction; her hand was millimetres away from his arm.

"Yeah." Porthos said, shifting away. "That's how I met my ex-boyfriend."

Maths pulled back. Around her, Chemistry and Geography also moved -- Chemistry towards, Geography away. Constance Bonacieux, Metalwork, turned the row on her knitting without changing her posture.

"Believe me," she said. "You're the most exciting thing Tunbridge Wells has seen since Queen Victoria's last visit. You're not going to need to write poetry to get a date."

Porthos chuckled. He had dimples. Aramis, the kettle boiling beside him, watched in admiration. That was... quite the smile. Shame the man was so judgemental.

The staffroom door opened: Jean-Armand Tréville -- in a royal blue tracksuit, whistle around his neck -- scowling. He stomped across the staffroom as if the floor had insulted his mother. Aramis ducked back out of sight. 

"Jean-Armand," Constance said. "What has our esteemed Head done today?"

Aramis heard springs creak as Tréville threw himself, groaning, into a chair. Aramis didn't need to see to know Tréville's eyes would be screwed shut. He stopped listening to the conversation -- it'd be the same old gripes -- and spooned own-brand instant coffee into his mug. The sugar had clearly been in the cupboard all summer; it had hardened into a single lump, studded with coffee granules. He chipped away a couple of chunks, threw them in, and added hot water. He checked the date on the milk suspiciously, worried it had also been there since July. It said September. He sniffed it before pouring, to be sure.

His name, spoken in the other room, grabbed his attention.

"The drama teacher," Constance said. "He's pretty enough to write poetry for."

Aramis stowed the milk back in the fridge and prepared to grace his adoring public with his presence.

"I've met him," Porthos said. "He's tolerable, but not handsome enough to tempt me."

Aramis staggered. Coffee slopped over the brim of his mug. He steadied himself against the doorframe.

_Not handsome enough? The arrogant bastard._

Aramis straightened his back and marched into the staffroom. 

"As it happens," he said, "I've already experienced the dubious privilege of inspiring Mr du Vallon's poetry." He stared at Porthos, daring him to deny it. Porthos nodded. Aramis broke eye contact and prowled across the room, making sure he had everyone's attention. "As is so often the case, once was enough."

Chemistry laughed, and turned away from Porthos. Constance gave both him and Aramis a reproving look. Aramis ignored it and arranged himself in the seat next to Tréville.

"Besides," he said. "I'm in love."

"Who is it this week?" Constance asked. 

Athos's half-smile floated, inappropriately, through Aramis's memory. He forced it aside.

"Her name's Adèle. She is elegance personified." He gestured the tumble of her hair. "Long curls. Beautiful eyes." He closed his fingers, remembering the feel of her palm against his. He began to believe his own words. "Such small hands."

Porthos snorted. "Adèle? From fencing class? You only met her last Wednesday. And she's married."

Constance put down her knitting. "Not again, Aramis. The last husband nearly flattened you with his Range Rover."

"Foil against four wheel drive?" Tréville asked. "What happened to the duelling code of honour?"

"What happened to the girlfriend?" Constance said. "Aramis hasn't mentioned her since his close encounter with her husband's penis substitute."

"She wasn't the one," Aramis said. "You know when you've found the one." The door opened behind him. He didn't turn, too busy being dramatic. "Ladies and gentlemen," he said, spreading his arms wide, "I love her."

He looked to see who had entered. Athos stood in the doorway, face impassive. Aramis's heart sank.

"And I thought the teenagers were histrionic," Athos said, sauntering into the staffroom. "I came here to escape a group of year 11s discussing their latest crushes."

"I think it's something in the water," Constance said. She picked up her knitting and began a new row. "The entire school is constantly falling in and out of love. You might want to stick to drinking bottled."

Athos gave her his half smile. "I feel confident I am immune."

Aramis's chest tightened. He wished Athos hadn't heard his declaration of love.

(He wished Athos, having heard, had cared.)

He gulped his coffee, grimacing at its bitterness and at the ache twisting his guts.


	7. Paper Patterns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Porthos is lonely, reaches out to Athos, and reconsiders his judgement of Aramis.

Porthos hung his keys on the hook in the hallway, bent to pick up his post, and carried his shopping through to the kitchen. He unloaded it on the counter: microwave veggie lasagne for one, a bag of salad, a bag of apples, and a big bar of dark chocolate, all in a "books not bombs" canvas bag. 

He'd been aware, wandering the aisles of the local Tesco Metro, of his shopping basket broadcasting his single status. His rented flat -- all bland magnolia walls, insipid framed prints, and cheap beige carpet -- felt equally lonely.

He switched on the radio, stuck the lasagne in the microwave, and flicked through his letters. Two pizza menus, advertising from Virgin Broadband, and another copy of the Adult Education brochure. _It's never too late to learn,_ the envelope proclaimed. The microwave whirred. The room filled with the scent of tomato sauce. Porthos tossed the post into the recycling bin.

He changed his mind a few minutes later and retrieved the brochure. Could he cancel his fencing class? He was seeing more than enough of Aramis d'Herblay at school. He didn't need a promiscuous swashbuckler in his private life as well. 

The microwave pinged. He tipped his lasagne onto a plate, added half the bag of salad, and ate leaning against the worktop while reading the brochure's small print: _you can request a transfer to an alternative course in the first two weeks of term, subject to availability._

Beginners Dressmaking, then? He turned to the course description and started reading.

# # #

Porthos strode towards the library. Wave after wave of students broke against him, rushing home. He kept moving at a steady pace, issuing smiles to the kids he recognised and rebukes to anyone running. Loud chatter and the heavy clomp of teenage feet in uniform lace-ups echoed around the corridor. 

The library was blessedly quiet. 

The drunken toff stood behind the counter, gazing into mid-air, an open book in his hand. He held a blue ribbon to his lips; its colour tugged at Porthos's memory. 

Porthos let the door bang shut behind him. De la Fère jumped. He coloured, marked his page with the ribbon, and tucked the book under the counter. He looked unexpectedly vulnerable, his pale eyes bright against the crimson patches high on his cheeks. Porthos, who'd been planning distant politeness, softened. 

"Hey," he said. "You apologised the other day and I didn't have a chance to reply."

"D'Artagnan," de la Fère said. "That boy is always bursting in. He makes more noise than the students."

"There's something puppy-dog about him, don't you think?" 

De la Fère's lips twitched; almost a smile. "The phrase 'puppy-dog' is one of Shakespeare's."

Porthos decided not to be offended. He was starting to believe de la Fère's attitude was less snobbery and more extraordinary social ineptitude. 

"I know," he said. "English teacher, remember? King John, Act II, Scene I."

De la Fère sighed and turned his head away. "Jesus, sorry. I'm being a dick again."

Porthos laughed. "Apologies accepted. Both of them."

De la Fère looked directly at him. "Thank you."

His eyes were green. And wary. Time to take the conversation back onto safe, professional ground.

"I'm here to pick up the class set of _Romeo and Juliet,_ " Porthos said. "I'm starting it with my year 10s tomorrow."

De la Fère, unexpectedly, flushed again. "They're right there," he said, gesturing towards a library trolley at Porthos's side. "Aramis... Mr d'Herblay brought them back ten minutes ago."

"Great," Porthos said, scooping up the stack of books. They nearly overbalanced. De la Fère, flustered, attempted to help. They did an awkward dance, stabilising the books between them. Porthos, balance regained, backed away. De la Fère quick-stepped ahead to open the door. Porthos nodded his thanks. 

"Are you doing anything tonight?" de la Fère blurted. Porthos stopped, startled. De la Fère looked as if he wished he hadn't spoken. He continued anyway, words flowing from him: "If you're interested, there's a pamphlet launch at the Fleur-de-lis. A local author. Émile Bonnaire. I don't know him. It might be rubbish..."

Porthos held up his hand for quiet. "Samara mentioned it," he said, remembering her pressing a flyer upon him at the open mic night. He'd liked Samara; wondered if they might become friends.

"She and Ninon will be there," de la Fère said. "I promised I'd go along."

Porthos thought quickly. His diary was empty: he should have had fencing, but he'd made the swap to dressmaking, Thursday nights instead of Wednesdays. Was his need to get to know people desperate enough to risk a night of awkwardness with Athos de la Fère?

"Yes," Porthos said. It was. "I'd love to come."

Athos looked away before Porthos caught his expression. "Meet me there at half six?"

# # #

Émile Bonnaire was a truly terrible poet. 

Porthos and Athos had bagged stools at the Fleur-de-lis's bar, ordered crisps and beer, and settled in to be entertained. The pub looked more disreputable mostly-empty than it had when packed out. Samara and Ninon stood at the front, hand-in-hand. Bonnaire took the floor. His first poem, bursting with overwrought imagery, silenced the room. A dark-haired woman at the front clapped loudly, glaring around; the small crowd joined in reluctantly.

Porthos glanced at Athos. Athos wasn't clapping. His mouth hung open. 

Bonnaire began his second piece. Porthos leaned across and whispered into Athos's ear.

"I don't think I can keep a straight face."

"Ninon will never forgive me if I walk out. She believes it's our duty to support local writers."

Bonnaire rhymed "love" and "dove".

"Will she forgive you if you laugh out loud?" Porthos whispered.

Athos slid off his seat. They tiptoed to the exit together, Porthos fighting the urge to giggle. The dark-haired woman gave them a vicious stare as they left. They reached the street and broke into a run, high on the joy of escape.

"Where are we going?" Porthos asked.

"Away," Athos said. He looked around and pointed further down the road. "Maybe away to pizza?"

"Sounds like a plan."

They stopped at Pizza Express, both gasping for breath, Porthos laughing through the gasps. Athos smiled. The loneliness within Porthos eased. A shared flight followed by pizza; comrades had bonded through less.

_I could be good friends with this man._

Porthos smiled back at Athos and held open the restaurant door for him.

# # #

" _Romeo and Juliet,_ " Porthos said, handing out the battered library books to his class. "Who knows the story?"

"Everyone dies," a girl in glasses said. 

"Good," Porthos said. "Identifying tropes is useful."

"Mr d'Herblay made us do Juliet in drama," a rugby-broad boy in the back row said. Porthos braced himself. If the boys had already concluded Shakespeare was effeminate he'd be fighting uphill all semester. 

The bloody promiscuous swashbuckler. 

"It was _amazing!_ " the boy said. "She kills herself, right, cos she can't live without her love, like, and she does it with a dagger, like this." He stabbed himself melodramatically and slipped from his chair to the floor, to laughter from the rest of the class. 

Porthos grinned, and let the boy finish his death throes. He paced back to the front of the class, applauding. "Bravo. Let's start there. Act V, Scene III."

The students opened their books with enthusiasm. Porthos nodded, pleased. He remembered the fencing class: Aramis's patience and skill. He might be promiscuous, but he knew how to teach. Perhaps Porthos had judged him too harshly?

# # #

Beginners Dressmaking was held in one of the side rooms of a community centre. Three groups of students congregated in the lobby: yoga mats, sketch books, and hipster beards. Porthos matched accessories to the timetable pinned by the door -- pilates, life drawing and dressmaking -- and concluded he was with the hipsters. He'd taken a step towards them when the door to the side room opened. 

"Dressmakers, in here," Aramis d'Herblay said.

The hipsters greeted him and filed past. Porthos watched, stunned. Aramis wore jeans and a soft grey t-shirt; his hair curled loose onto his shoulders. He looked up and saw Porthos. His eyes narrowed. He muttered under his breath and tangled a hand in his hair. 

Porthos stepped forward, with his best smile. He'd forgotten quite how attractive Aramis was. "I didn't realise you taught dressmaking."

"Don't tell Headmaster Richelieu," Aramis said. "He'll have me doing extra-curricular sewing classes."

"The students would be lucky," Porthos said. "You're a great teacher."

Aramis scowled. "Is that why you're stalking me?"

He whirled and marched to the front of the room, leaving Porthos gaping.

_Damn._

_It'll take more than a jog and a pizza to sort this out._


	8. Forget Me Not

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Athos is given Aramis's phone number, receives a letter, and makes some unwise calls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm finding writing really difficult at the moment -- I'd appreciate your comments more than ever. Thank you, lovely readers!
> 
> CW: alcohol abuse from Athos.

Athos held open the library doors. Half a dozen baby gays, all sporting rainbow badges on their school bags, sashayed out. The LGBTQ+ group's first meeting of the new term had gone well: they'd made ground rules, posters, and big plans. 

Athos had started the meeting behind his counter, catching up on paperwork, and ended it applying glitter to a unicorn on one of the posters. He'd pinned the finished masterpiece to the library noticeboard.

_Some people are gay,_ it said. _What's your superpower?_

"Thank you, Mr de la Fère," the organiser said. She had teased her short dark hair into a spiky quiff and put in the multiple hoop earrings she wasn't allowed to wear during the school day. "This beats the minibus garage. You're sure about Pride?"

Athos nodded. "Don't tell anyone." Headmaster Richelieu was not going to approve. With any luck he wouldn't find out until afterwards. "See you all next Thursday after study club."

A skinny year 10 boy, all knees, elbows and sticking-out ears, gave Athos an impudent grin from down the corridor. He held up the James Baldwin paperback he'd checked out. "I'll be back for another book before then."

"We'll talk about _Giovanni's Room_ when you return it," Athos said. "Don't forget to read critically."

"You're not my English teacher."

"I'm the person who controls your literature supply. If you can hold a half decent conversation about David and Giovanni I'll order _Boy Meets Boy_. Impress me and I'll get _Two Boys Kissing_ as well."

The boy punched the air. "Yes! Consider me incentivised."

Athos closed the doors behind the group. His nose twitched. The library smelt like a branch of Lush. He climbed on a kick step to open the circular window at the back of the room. A breeze fluttered down the table, picking up glitter and scattering it across the parquet. Athos sighed and headed to the staff room for a dustpan and brush.

He encountered d'Artagnan on the way back. 

"Mr de la Fère, just the man I wanted to see!" 

"D'Artagnan." Athos checked his watch. Six fifteen. "Shouldn't you have gone home?"

D'Artagnan waved the idea aside. "Ages ago," he said, cheerful. They strolled towards the library together. "It's fine. The temping agency pays overtime and I need the cash if I'm ever going to move out of my parents' place." 

"You live with your parents?"

"Not for much longer if the Head keeps piling the work on." D'Artagnan smiled. "Can I have your number?"

_What?_ Athos went statue-still, wondering what he'd done to give the wrong impression. Perhaps he shouldn't have asked about his living arrangements. The boy was beautiful, but far too young. Although, those lips...

Athos's cheeks blazed.

D'Artagnan continued walking for several steps before noticing Athos's absence. He turned and registered Athos's expression.

"Oh!" D'Artagnan held his hands up, blushing too. His hair fell across his face. "I don't... I wouldn't... not that you're not... I didn't mean... that is... the number's not for me."

Athos collected himself. "It's for a friend?" he said, as dryly as he could manage.

"No!" D'Artagnan pushed his hair back. "I'm putting together lists of emergency contacts for all the extra-curricular clubs -- to go to parents. I need yours for the fencing club list."

"Of course." Athos closed his eyes, feeling like an idiot. They'd reached the library. He put his hand on the door and took a deep breath. "Let me write it down for you."

"Come to the office and I'll type it straight onto the list and print you a copy."

Athos nodded and followed d'Artagnan, still carrying the dustpan and brush. They barely talked in the office. Athos left with a contacts list warm from the printer. He folded it and slid it, unread, into his jacket's inside pocket. Fifteen minutes later, glitter all swept up, he let himself look at it. 

Aramis's number.

He had Aramis's number. 

He took out his phone and added Aramis to his contacts. The Recently Added list contained two numbers: Porthos du Vallon and Aramis d'Herblay. The first given freely over pizza, the second coveted but withheld after a one-night stand. 

Athos put the phone down on the library counter and stared at it. He'd never call Aramis. 

It thrilled him to know he could. 

# # #

Athos found himself humming Mozart as he walked around Tonbridge Waitrose: _Pa-Pa-Pa-Pa-Pa-Pa-Papagena._ His steps fell into the rhythm of the music. Other shoppers smiled at him; a purple-haired young woman joined in for a few lines, her German impeccable. 

He felt odd: relaxed yet full of energy, and somehow warm on the inside.

_Am I happy?_

He decided he liked the feeling. He wandered the vegetable section contentedly squeezing tomatoes and examining aubergines to find the perfect ingredients. He selected fresh pasta and frozen garlic bread. He chose a bar of the darkest chocolate he could find: a single estate Columbian. He found a Médoc Cru Artisan Bordeaux on sale and filled a six-bottle wine carrier. He engaged in small talk with the tattooed man on the till.

He drove home singing. 

He found a parking space directly outside his house and manoeuvred neatly into it, enjoying his good luck. He retrieved his shopping from the boot, hoisted the bags one-handed so he could unlock the front door, and stepped over his post on the way to the kitchen space at the back of the house. He didn't come back for the letters until he had opened one of the bottles of wine and poured himself a generous glass. He swirled it, inhaled the aroma, and took an appreciative sip. He promised himself he'd savour it and hid the remaining five bottles, still in the carrier, at the back of a cupboard.

The letters turned out to be the usual selection of junk mail plus a window envelope from his investment manager. He tossed the pile onto the coffee table. A postcard slipped out from among the take-away menus and tipped onto the floor.

Athos caught a glimpse of its picture and stopped breathing. It showed the blue haze of a forget-me-not meadow. He shivered, chilled.

_How does she know I'm home?_

He backed away. He didn't pick up the postcard. He didn't want to know what she had to say. He walked a wide circle around it to the kitchen, where he gathered the wine carrier and his corkscrew. He avoided the postcard again on his way to the stairs and climbed to his bed mezzanine, where he wrapped himself in the duvet and proceeded to drink until he forgot her. 

# # #

A mobile phone alarm woke Athos on Friday morning. His phone wasn't in its usual place on his bedside table. The volume increased. He groaned and patted his pillows and duvet, eyes barely slitted open, until he found the phone and hit snooze.

Friday? Wasn't there something he was supposed to remember on Friday?

He turned over slowly, his head throbbing. Glass clinked. He peered underneath the duvet and discovered he was sleeping with two empty wine bottles. Deep red stains spread across the sheets. Another couple of bottles stood on the bedside table. A fifth lay on the floor. The sixth was still half full. He picked it up and squinted at the label. It had been quite a decent Bordeaux. He couldn't recall buying it, let alone drinking it.

The alarm went off again. He cursed as he silenced it. 

What was it about Friday? There was definitely something.

He opened his calendar. Of course: he was meeting Porthos and Aramis about the school play. He relaxed for a moment, picturing the two men. Picturing the three of them together. He'd made friends with Porthos, he could do the same with Aramis. And then, who knew what might happen...

A memory surfaced. 

_Porthos and Aramis!_

The bottom dropped out of his stomach as panic hit. He swiped at his phone, clumsy, accidentally opening the camera and taking a picture before bringing up his call log.

            _Outgoing call 2:45am -- Porthos du Vallon_  
            _Outgoing call 2:49am -- Aramis d'Herblay_

No.

He dropped the phone.

No no _no!_

_I cannot believe I drunk dialled them both. What did I say?_

Athos cursed himself loudly enough for his pounding head to protest. Nausea flooded through him. 

_What have I done?_


	9. Fine Needlework

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Aramis teaches Porthos how to sew and learns something important about Athos. *smut alert!*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: masturbation and a teeny bit of cross-dressing. Also: rejection.

Aramis waited as his dressmaking students sat down at the workbenches and got out their fabric. The keen ones began threading their sewing machines. Porthos, brow furrowed, made his way to an unclaimed machine at the back of the room. He'd missed the first class, so he had no fabric. He'd probably never seen a sewing machine before.

Aramis sighed. He might not want Porthos here -- it had been a relief when he hadn't shown up for fencing the previous night -- but in this context Porthos was a student and Aramis was his teacher. He took a deep breath and paced towards the back of the room, clapping his hands.

"Anyone who can't remember how to thread their sewing machine gather round our new student, Porthos du Vallon."

About half the class followed. Aramis handed Porthos a reel of azure thread and a full bobbin, and talked him through the first few steps. 

"It's coming back to me," Porthos said, turning the handwheel to draw up the bobbin thread without being told. He pulled the threads to the back of the machine and looked up at Aramis, pleased with himself.

"You've sewn before?"

"Watched, mainly. One of my friends makes all her own clothes. She carted her mum's old Singer sewing machine from foster home to foster home when we were teenagers. It weighed an absolute ton."

"Can you hem?"

Porthos shook his head. 

Aramis didn't sigh. He handed Porthos a square of calico. "Here. Try sewing straight lines for now, and experiment with the stitch length," he pointed at the dial, "and the stitch width." He pointed again. "I'll come and help you when I've got everyone else up and running."

The rest of the class were keen to show off their fabric. The room filled with the smell of cheap dye. They were making aprons and had chosen everything from gingham to gold lamé. Aramis circulated and admired, helping people wind bobbins and thread their machines. 

He called everyone over to watch -- Porthos along with the others -- as he demonstrated using a paper pattern, cutting out apron plus pocket from calico. He then spent half the lesson coaxing the students into following suit: first timers were always reluctant to spoil newly-acquired fabric by cutting it. He checked the clock at the back of the room. 

"Tea break," he announced. "The urn in the kitchen's switched on. Don't forget to leave 50p in the collection box."

The class trooped out, chattering excitedly about their work. Porthos didn't move. He was bent over his sewing machine, biting his lip in concentration. The sewing machine whirred: a short burst, then a longer one. Porthos lifted the presser foot, turned his fabric, and put the foot down again. Another long burst of stitching. Aramis picked up the calico apron pieces and tiptoed over to watch. Porthos had discovered the fancy stitches. He'd made a frame of vines and leaves and was filling it with a square spiral of hearts and flowers. 

Aramis waited until he reached the end of a line. 

"You're better at sewing than at fencing," he said, holding out the pieces of fabric. 

Porthos started upright, then smiled. He took the fabric. "I feel my masculinity's been impugned." His dimples truly were a joy to behold. "But this is such fun it's hard to care. Have you seen the little-ducks stitch? I'm going to put a row of them across the pocket of my apron."

"I'd say your masculinity is in commendably robust shape."

"Oh, I'm only ever going to wear the apron for manly cooking. Steaks and fry ups and barbecues."

Porthos dimpled again. Aramis turned away, reminding himself not to flirt. Cute but censorious wasn't a combination he found attractive. The other students filed back in, complaining about the instant coffee. Aramis laughed at them.

"You want single-origin espresso, you're going to have to bring your own," he said. "Who needs help with their hems?"

The final hour of the lesson passed in a blur of hemming, attaching pockets and waist ties, and banter with the owner of the gold lamé, an attractively muscular older man. Aramis felt Porthos's gaze on him. He didn't turn to look at Porthos's expression, fearing it would be judgemental.

Porthos was the last to leave. He hung around after all the other students had packed up their half-finished aprons and gone. Aramis busied himself with putting the sewing machines away, his back to Porthos, hoping Porthos would take the hint. 

Porthos didn't. 

He folded his work and sat on the bench next to it, watching Aramis. He didn't offer to help. Aramis lugged the last sewing machine to the cupboard, slotted it into place, and slammed the cupboard doors. 

"Lesson's over," he said.

"I'd like to talk to you," Porthos said. He patted the bench next to him. "Take a seat."

Aramis folded his arms. "I'd rather stand."

"You don't make it easy," Porthos said. 

_Good,_ Aramis thought. 

"I'd like to take you out. It's against my better instincts. I've watched you flirt with every student in the room again tonight. You can't stop yourself. If we go for a drink you'll probably flirt with the bar tender."

"Why stop there?" Aramis said. "If we chose the right bar it'd be full of beautiful people to flirt with."

"You're naturally promiscuous. But I'm prepared to overlook that."

"You are, are you?"

Porthos smiled, wielding his dimples. "Where will we find this bar full of beautiful people?"

" _'We'_ won't find it anywhere. I wouldn't in a million years go out with you, Porthos du Vallon." Porthos's face fell. Aramis continued. "How _dare_ you say you'll overlook my so-called promiscuity, as if how I interact with my students is any of your business? How dare you talk about your better instincts? You've done nothing but judge me since we met. You've insulted me in poetry and at work. I can't think of anything I'd like less than spending more time with you."

Aramis picked up his things and stalked to the door. He held it open and motioned Porthos to leave. Porthos, looking stunned, stood. 

"But I think I could really like you," he said. 

Aramis shrugged. Was he supposed to feel flattered? "I have a date tonight," he said. "With Adèle. I'd prefer not to be late."

# # # 

Aramis's phone rang.

"It's late," Adèle said, snuggling into him. Adèle's bedroom was dark. The glowing numerals of her alarm clock said 02:49. The phone rang insistently, from somewhere else in the house. 

Aramis, barely awake, tried to remember where he'd left his phone. He recalled Adèle unbuttoning his jeans the moment she'd closed the front door behind him. She'd dropped down to her knees, smiling up at him; he'd leaned back against the door and buried his hands in her soft hair... 

He blinked. Focused. His phone. The time.

_2:49am?_

A call at 02:49 couldn't possibly be good news. Aramis's heart thumped. The phone stopped ringing. 

Aramis, wide awake, slipped out of bed, glad he habitually took the side nearest the door. He padded towards the hallway. He found his t-shirt at the top of the stairs and pulled it on. It barely reached his thighs. Adèle's clothes tumbled discarded down the stairs. Aramis's jeans were in a crumpled heap on the doormat. He fished his phone out of the back pocket and unlocked it.

Unknown caller.

A voicemail message popped in. He stared at the screen, heart racing, scared to listen. A chill breeze crept in under the door. He shivered. His cock shrivelled. 

Half naked in a lover's hallway was no way to receive bad news. 

He looked for his briefs, found Adèle's French knickers instead and stepped into them. He felt less vulnerable immediately. The lace edging tickled as he sat down on the bottom stair and drew up his knees.

_Play voicemail._

"Aramis."

Aramis's cock twitched. He knew that voice. Aloof, aristocratic, a touch slurred. Athos? 

"I..."

Athos stopped speaking. Aramis held his breath. Athos made a sound that could have been a chuckle or a cry of pain. 

"...I needed to say your name. To you. I can't--"

Athos broke off. Aramis pressed the phone to his ear. 

"--I can't forget how you looked underneath me. Your face as you came. Your face as I came. How you touched me..."

His voice trailed off. When he spoke again, Aramis could barely hear the words. 

"You took me apart and put me back together--"

A click. 

"To listen to the message again, press 2."

 _No!_ That couldn't be the entire message. Aramis pressed 2. 

"Aramis."

Aramis's cock stiffened. Its head rubbed against silky fabric. Aramis palmed himself left-handed and arched his back.

"I..."

Aramis closed his eyes. He pushed his hand beneath the waistband of Adèle's knickers and curled his fingers around his cock.

"...I needed to say your name. To you. I can't--"

Aramis's fingers tightened. He remembered Athos's hands on him: Athos naked, cupping Aramis's balls. 

"--I can't forget how you looked underneath me. Your face as you came. Your face as I came. How you touched me..."

Aramis stroked himself slowly. 

"You took me apart and put me back together--"

Aramis squeezed his cock, pushing into his fist. He pressed 2.

"Aramis."

Aramis moaned at the sound of his name. He sped up, twisting his wrist on the upstroke. Adèle's knickers, sleek on the back of his hand, sent tingles through him. He spread his legs. Lace brushed against his balls. He whimpered.

"I..."

Aramis slowed, not wanting to come too fast.

"...I needed to say your name. To you. I can't--"

Aramis teased himself with his fingertips, tipping his head back. He basked in Athos's voice. 

"--I can't forget how you looked underneath me. Your face as you came. Your face as I came. How you touched me..."

Aramis screwed his eyes tight, remembering Athos's cock. Athos's cock opening him. Athos's cock buried deep inside him. Athos's cock thrusting into him. 

"You took me apart and put me back together--"

Aramis's strokes sped up, his self-control forgotten. He pumped into his fist, lifting his hips off the stairs with every thrust. He moaned, his breathing ragged. He fumbled with the phone and pressed 2. 

"Aramis."

Aramis quivered and cried out.

"I..."

He worked his cock faster, curling his wrist.

"...I needed to say your name. To you. I can't--"

Aramis shuddered. 

"--I can't forget how you looked underneath me. Your face as you came. Your face as I came. How you touched me..."

Aramis pressed his thumb against the tip of his cock. He gasped.

"You took me apart and put me back together--"

Aramis held himself tightly and came in his hand, picturing Athos's smile. He stroked himself through his orgasm, panting. He slumped, head hanging, his heartbeat thrashing in his ears. Sweat ran down his chest. He trembled. His hair hung in his face. He let his breathing slowly return to normal. His mind filled with Athos's green eyes; Athos's perfect mouth.

He pressed 2.

"Aramis."

" _Aramis?_ " Adèle's voice, from upstairs.

Aramis jumped. He looked down at himself. Adèle's knickers were soaked with his cum. He was a shivery post-orgasmic mess. And he'd fallen for someone else, in the middle of the night, on Adèle's stairs.

He had some explaining to do.


	10. The Mighty Porthos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Porthos hides his feelings, experiments with blackmail, and lives to regret it.

The light woke Porthos. His bedroom curtains were a gauzy amber; the early morning sun pouring through gave the room a warmth at odds with his mood. He checked the time: half six. If he were going to walk to school he needed to move.

He forced himself out of bed and into the shower, turned the temperature right up and stood, eyes closed and head back. The water hit his face, needle sharp, and streamed over his body. Aramis's words ran through his head.

_I wouldn't in a million years go out with you, Porthos du Vallon._

Porthos took a shuddering breath. He'd learnt young to do his crying silently in the shower. Tears shed unseen were safe; tears overheard were weapons against him.

Twenty minutes later he'd cried himself out. He washed quickly, towelled dry, and armoured himself to face the world. He dressed in clothes he knew made him look good: white shirt, tight enough around the arms and shoulders to show off his biceps; black trousers; and a mulberry tie. He trimmed his beard and brushed his teeth. He sprayed on a touch of Comme des Garcons 2, usually kept only for dates. 

He skipped breakfast. He could mask his feelings; he wasn't certain he could keep food down.

# # #

He checked his phone as he left the house. It showed a picture message and a voicemail from Athos. Porthos opened the message and frowned at the photo. He zoomed in. A bed? Filthy tangled bedclothes, discarded socks, and empty wine bottles, their contents seemingly poured over the sheets. It made Tracy Emin's sleeping arrangements look hygienic.

He flicked through to the voicemail notification. 

_2:24am?_

The message started with silence. Porthos nearly hung up, assuming it was a pocket call. Then Athos spoke. 

"Porthos." 

The tone matched that from the Fleur-de-lis: snooty enough to raise Porthos's hackles, and with only the barest hint of slurring. How much of that wine had Athos drunk?

"I love you, man. I _bloody_ love you."

Porthos's jaw dropped. He listened in disbelief. He'd received messages like this before -- plenty of his friends were affectionate drunks -- but never in such aristocratic accents. Athos enunciated every word.

"You're _mighty,_ Porthos."

The message ended. 

_Mighty?_ Porthos chuckled. He'd been dreading the staffroom, hating the thought of having to face Aramis. Athos's antics gave him hope. If Porthos could deflect attention away from himself and onto Athos he'd be able to get through the day.

# # #

Porthos was leaving the kitchen, coffee in hand, when Athos reached the staffroom. He wore dark glasses and dark clothes. His hair looked uncombed. He glanced over his shoulder at the sound of running feet and held the door open for Aramis. Aramis bounded through, beaming at Athos and ignoring Porthos entirely. Aramis looked dapper, even for him. He wore a navy linen blazer and had done something particularly becoming to his hair. He put his hand on Athos's arm.

Porthos kept his shoulders back and his head high. 

"Athos! The kettle's just boiled. You're going to need caffeine after the night you've had. How drunk were you?"

Athos slid his dark glasses down his nose and peered at Porthos over them. "Did I... leave you a message?"

"You did better than that," Porthos said. He stepped back into the kitchen, Athos and Aramis following. Porthos picked Athos's yellow "Kiss the Librarian" mug off the shelf and spooned coffee granules into it. "You sent me a photo. Don't you ever wash your bedlinen? What colour are your sheets supposed to be?"

"They're grey," Aramis said. 

Porthos and Athos both turned to him, Athos with an indrawn breath.

"He sent you the picture too?" Porthos asked. "Did he also leave you a voicemail telling you how much he loved you?"

Aramis froze. Athos buried his head in his hands. 

"Jesus," he said. "I don't suppose I could persuade you to delete the messages?"

Aramis took a step back.

"No chance," Porthos said, laughing. "This is perfect blackmail material. I'll expect VIP treatment in the library, otherwise that photo might find its way to the Head's office."

Aramis retreated another couple of steps.

"If you delete it I'll give you unlimited interlibrary loans," Athos said. 

Aramis cleared his throat. "I... I have to go. I have a..." He ran a hand through his hair, staring down at his feet. "A thing."

He fled. Athos stared after him. 

"Very strange man, Mr d'Herblay," Porthos said. "Flighty. Not entirely reliable." He finished making Athos's coffee and handed it over. "Now, let's discuss how you're going to give me control of the library's poetry budget."

Athos groaned.

# # #

Porthos's day went well. He'd survived his first week as Head of English. His final class, the year 10 _Romeo and Juliet_ aficionados, were full of energy and enthusiasm. They had a collective soft spot for Benvolio, and a belief in his love for Mercutio, so Porthos set them to re-imagine acts IV and V with a heartbroken Benvolio at Romeo's side. They barely noticed the final bell; Porthos had to chase them out.

D'Artagnan poked his head in as Porthos tidied up the whiteboard markers. He carried his shorthand notebook and a freshly-sharpened pencil and wore a bemused expression.

"Your class," he said. 

"Uh-huh?"

"They're hanging around the water fountain arguing about whether Romeo and Juliet or Benvolio and Mercutio are the OTP of _Romeo and Juliet_. I had to ask one of the girls what an OTP was. It's..."

"I know," Porthos said. "I set the homework."

"That's their homework? English lessons have changed since my day."

"Your day? You can't have left school more than five minutes ago. And, speaking of leaving school..." Porthos picked up his copy of _Romeo and Juliet_ , checked the classroom was spick and span, and strolled to the door. "I believe the weekend has started."

"Not for you," d'Artagnan said. "That's why I'm here. You have a meeting."

Porthos halted, remembering. 

"The school play," he said. His heart sunk. He'd got through his staffroom encounter with Aramis, but he wasn't certain he could actually work with the man. Not yet. Not with his rejection so fresh. Not with him looking drop dead gorgeous and being everything Porthos wanted.

D'Artagnan checked his notebook. "Four pm in the drama studio."

Porthos bit his lip. "Wouldn't it be better to leave it to the drama department? I mean, what do I know about plays, really?"

D'Artagnan looked pointedly at the volume of Shakespeare in Porthos's hand. He tilted his head, his perfect hair falling to one side, and raised an eyebrow.

"Fair point," Porthos said. "But mine is more book knowledge than stage knowledge." He thought hard. "And Mr de la Fère has book knowledge too, which means I'm surplus to requirements."

"That's the other reason I'm here," d'Artagnan said. "Mr de la Fère won't be able to join you. Headmaster Richelieu has asked him to take a breathalyser test. Random testing, school policy."

Porthos stared. 

_Aramis and I are going to be meeting alone?_ he thought.

It was a moment before a second realisation hit him, along with a hundredweight of guilt. 

_Athos might fail the test._

_Is it really random, or did someone hear me this morning?_


	11. Fortification

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Athos drinks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: more alcohol abuse from Athos.

The bell for morning assembly sliced through Athos's hangover. He flinched and closed his eyes behind his dark glasses. Around him teachers chugged their coffees, slung their mugs in the sink and headed out to face their students. Crockery clashed. Feet stomped. Voices yammered. Athos gritted his teeth to stop himself yelling for silence.

"Catch you later," Porthos said, squeezing Athos's shoulder as he left. Athos's stomach clenched. He couldn't believe he'd sent Porthos a photo as well as drunk-dialing him. He hadn't looked to see what the photo was. He couldn't face knowing exactly how badly he'd screwed up. Not yet. Not until he felt less likely to throw up.

He had ten minutes before he needed to open the library. He waited until he was certain he had the staffroom to himself before opening his eyes. He padded to the kettle, touched its side, and decided the water was warm enough. He couldn't face the noise of it re-boiling. He made the quietest cup of coffee he could manage, careful not to clink the teaspoon against the mug as he stirred, and used it to swallow a couple of paracetamol.

Maybe the combination of caffeine and painkillers would get him through the day.

# # #

Athos unlocked the library and swapped his dark glasses for reading glasses. He cupped his hand around his mouth and breathed out, fearing he stunk of stale Bordeaux. He opened the porthole window for fresh air. It wasn't enough. He'd have to prop the doors open too.

Three year 11 girls pushed past as Athos bent to wedge the doors with a folded sheet of photocopier paper. He straightened and watched, blinking, as they spread their sketch pads across the table, chattering incessantly, their voices pitched at his headache's resonant frequency. He craned for a glimpse of their project brief: Art and Design coursework, on the theme "Gluttony and Greed."

His stomach churned.

"We need books about artists inspired by food and drink," the tallest girl, all blond hair and supercilious expression, announced.

Athos sighed. Behind him, the doors slipped over their makeshift wedges and slammed shut. The girls giggled at his expression. 

"Can we have the fairy lights on?" the girl with the loudest giggle asked. She didn't wait for his reply. She crouched at the balustrade to turn them on, flicking the switch to set them to flash. Athos glared, strode across the room, and unplugged them at the socket. 

He took a deep breath. His head throbbed. "Let's start with still lives," he said, reaching for the tatters of his professionalism.

Two bells later the library was blessedly empty. He'd supplied books for art, geography and French, shown one of the maths teachers how to search the library catalogue, and dealt with emails. His hangover hadn't improved. Caffeine and painkillers weren't going to cut it.

He kept a tea tray on his desk, mini kettle always full of water and ready to go. He switched on the kettle and spooned Earl Grey into the teapot. While the water boiled he unlocked and opened his top desk drawer. His hip flask -- made of battered pewter, his grandfather's initials engraved on the front, and full of a rather good Armagnac -- weighed down a stack of papers. He didn't touch it. He knew he shouldn't keep it in the library; knew it was probably a sacking offence to be in possession of alcohol on school premises. He'd promised himself he'd never drink it. Still, he found it comforting to know it was there. 

The kettle clicked off. Athos set the flask down and made tea. Bergamot-scented steam rose. He breathed deep, eyes closing, desperate for the tea to be enough. He poured. Sipped. Put down the cup.

The tea wasn't enough. He picked up the hip flask. 

The library's doors crashed open. Athos's heart pounded. He dropped the flask into his drawer and slammed the drawer shut before looking up, wide eyed and panicky. Sweat prickled along his brow.

"D'Artagnan!"

The temp folded his arms. He looked steadily at Athos. "Startled?"

Athos dropped his gaze to his tea. "Professionally irked," he said. "This is a library. When will you learn to enter quietly?" 

"You usually shush me." D'Artagnan approached the counter. His nostrils flared. Athos, not sure if d'Artagnan had smelt the Earl Grey or the red wine, stopped breathing and stepped away. 

"Consider yourself shushed." Athos's hands shook. He hid them behind his back. "Did you want anything in particular?"

"Diary reminder," d'Artagnan said. "You have a meeting about the school play at four pm in the drama studio. Don't forget."

Athos shivered, remembering Porthos's laughter and the way Aramis had run from the staffroom. Athos had destroyed any chance of their working well together. 

"Forgetting is not an option, believe me."

D'Artagnan nodded. "Good." He didn't speak again until he'd reached the doors. "And, Mr de la Fère..."

His voice trailed off. Athos waited. He raised an eyebrow as the silence stretched. D'Artagnan shook his head. 

"Never mind."

Athos watched him leave. He picked up his cup, hands still shaking. He'd been milliseconds from being caught. Relief washed over him, followed by raw need.

He slid open the desk drawer. Quickly, before he could think himself out of it, he grabbed the flask and poured half its contents into his tea.

# # #

The afternoon went better. 

Athos followed the first cup of fortified tea with a second. The brandy pushed back his headache and stopped the shakes. He propped open the library doors with two stacks of physics textbooks and went about his duties with something approaching good cheer, humming as he reshelved returned books. He ignored quizzical looks from his colleagues and sniggers from the students. 

The final bell rang. Athos checked his watch and smiled. He could make it to the off-licence and back before the meeting. He didn't have to face Porthos and Aramis without help.

Constance Bonacieux arrived as he closed the porthole window. He jumped down from the kick step, wobbling only slightly, and greeted her with his best smile. They'd worked in the same school before, years earlier, when Constance had been straight out of teacher training. He'd always liked her straight-talking manner.

"Athos," Constance said, face grave. She nudged the physics books aside and closed the doors gently. "Good day?"

"It started badly," Athos said, putting on his jacket, "and got better. Now, if you'll excuse me..."

Constance leant back against the doors, blocking his escape.

"Why did it get better?"

"I found a way of coping."

"So I heard," Constance said.

Her disapproving tone registered with Athos more than her words. He shrugged it off. What right had she to judge him?

"I really am in rather a hurry," he said. 

Constance opened her mouth to reply. A quiet knock on the door stopped her. She stepped aside to let d'Artagnan in. 

"Dr Lemay is ready," d'Artagnan said, avoiding Athos's gaze.

"We'll need you to come to the first aid room," Constance said. 

Athos laughed. Both Constance and d'Artagnan winced at the sound. 

"I'm not sick," Athos said. 

"That remains to be seen," Constance said. "Dr Lemay is here to breathalyse you."

Athos staggered as the words hit him. Heat rushed through his body. His cheeks burned. His knees gave way.

_I've screwed everything up. Again._

Constance and d'Artagnan watched as he sank to the floor, his world crashing down around him.


	12. Almost Like Being in Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Aramis dances, Adèle takes her husband's car to the woods, and Aramis learns about polyamory. *smut alert!*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: lots of het porn - cunnilingus, vaginal and anal fingering.

**Friday, four pm**

Aramis set out three chairs in the drama studio. He sat in one, crossed his legs casually, and checked his reflection in the mirrored wall. He didn't look as relaxed as he'd hoped. He shifted. His disquiet was reflected back at him. 

He buried his head in his hands, cheeks burning as he remembered the conversation that morning in the staffroom. He'd floated into work, wanting only to hear Athos say his name again; convinced Athos wanted to be with him. He'd been all over the man, his infatuation obvious -- to Athos and everyone else -- before finding out Athos had drunk-dialed half the school. That voicemail message had meant nothing. 

Aramis got up and shifted all three chairs. They'd be better further apart... 

Nearer the window... 

Further from the door... 

His palms, sweaty, slid across the chairs' moulded plastic backs as he moved them for the third time. His heart raced.

He stopped, straightened, and swore. 

It had been years since he'd last experienced stage-fright. He'd forgotten how it felt. He hadn't forgotten how to overcome it. He opened a window, composed himself, and took a deep breath. He concentrated on his breathing and on his posture. He cleared his mind as best he could. He forgave himself when his efforts still left worries chasing round his head. 

Of course he had worries. He was stuck on the school play committee from Hell: him; his unrequited crush; and the least likeable devastatingly handsome poet who'd ever asked him out.

Heavy steps approached the studio and stopped in the doorway. Aramis took one last breath, shut the window, and turned. Porthos, top button undone and tie askew, waited, impatience clear in his narrowed eyes and frown.

Aramis folded his arms and stayed silent. 

"I don't have time for this," Porthos said. 

Aramis shrugged. Not spending time with Porthos was fine by him, even if it meant facing Athos alone.

"I'm sure Mr de la Fère and I can manage without your input," he said. "Do you have any suggestions for plays you'd like us to consider?"

"Mr de la Fère is unable to attend," Porthos said, scowling. "As for the play, please yourself. You usually do." 

Aramis looked away, attempting to convey disdain through the angle of his head. Porthos muttered something -- Aramis caught the word "butterfly" -- and stormed off. Aramis waited, breath held, until the doors at the far end of the corridor slammed.

A reprieve!

He pirouetted around the studio fluttering imaginary butterfly wings.

# # #

He was still dancing when Adèle arrived. She laughed and ran to join him, ballet flats pattering across the floorboards. He gathered her into a twirling, swooping waltz, enjoying the sandalwood scent of her hair and the smoothness of her hand in his. The skirt of her candyfloss-coloured dress belled out as she turned. 

"Good day?" Adèle asked. 

"Terrible day. Good end to it." Aramis dipped Adèle and smiled down at her. "What brings you here?"

"The weather's glorious and I know the perfect picnic spot."

"Do you now?" Aramis pictured Adèle stretched out naked on a tartan blanket, the last of the summer sun glinting bronze in her hair. "Is it secluded?"

"Very. I've packed a hamper."

"And a blanket?"

She smiled knowingly. "And a blanket."

# # #

Adèle's car turned out to be a sleek black Jaguar with oxblood upholstery. The smell of warm leather was almost overpowering. Adèle opened all the windows before pulling off.

"It's my husband's," she said, wrinkling her nose at the smell. 

"Does he mind sharing?" Aramis asked, without thinking. The double meaning hit him a millisecond too late. He liked sleeping with married women -- especially those whose partners bored them in bed, but who were otherwise happy with their relationship -- but had always avoided considering any repercussions. He certainly didn't want to know about the effect on their partners.

Adèle gave him a sharp look. "We have an open relationship," she said. "He knows about you."

"What have you told him?"

"I've told him you make me happy." 

Aramis blinked. "You told your husband that your new lover makes you happy? I bet he was delighted to hear that."

Adèle flicked on her indicators and eased into the right-hand lane. They were approaching the edge of town; ahead, suburban villas gave way to the green belt.

"He was. He loves me. Why wouldn't he want me to be happy?"

"I'd have thought he'd want to make you happy himself."

"Being happy with you doesn't make me less happy with him."

Aramis shook his head and pushed his hair off his face, unconvinced. Things hadn't ended well the last time one of his girlfriends had confessed to her husband. The husband had caught them in the act, then tried to run Aramis over as he fled; he'd been forced into an undignified, half-clothed sprint through Calverley Park. 

"We're ethically non-monogamous," Adèle said, as if that were an explanation.

"I know a lot about non-monogamy..."

"We can work on your ethics." 

"I can think of more interesting things to work on."

Adèle turned into a rutted dirt track and pulled up at the edge of a wood. She put the handbrake on and switched off the engine before turning to him. "Tell me about those interesting things..."

Aramis unclipped both of their seatbelts and leaned towards her, curving to avoid the gearstick. She half-turned, hampered by the steering wheel. Aramis ran his thumb down Adèle's jaw and curled his fingers into her nape. Her hair coiled around his fingertips, feather-soft. He closed his eyes as he leant closer. Their lips met, gentle. Aramis teased his tongue along Adèle's bottom lip. She deepened the kiss. Aramis put everything else out of his mind and focused on Adèle, feeling the brush of his beard against her cheek and her hands running across his shirt.

Adèle pulled away, the tiniest bit breathless. "We're not going to make it into the wood at this rate."

Aramis tucked her hair behind her ears, kissed her one last time, and drew back. "There's always the back seat."

She laughed and thumped him on the arm. "Not a chance. Do I look seventeen?"

Aramis tilted his head and pursed his lips. "Is there any way of answering that which won't earn me another punch?" 

Adèle grinned, thumped him again, then bent to kiss the place she'd hit. They climbed out of the car, still teasing each other. Aramis retrieved the picnic hamper from the back seat and followed Adèle towards the wood. The dirt track gave way to a grassy path, which turned to springy moss once they were under the tree canopy. Aramis heard knocking and turned his head up to catch a woodpecker high in the trees. A stream babbled alongside them. The air was warm, heady and floral.

"What's that smell?" 

"Honeysuckle," Adèle said. "It's been glorious this summer."

They emerged into a clearing. Honeysuckle twined around branches. Mossy grass carpeted the ground. A small buff bird flitted through shafts of sunlight, singing its heart out. Aramis stopped.

"We've landed in paradise." He whistled along with the bird, wishing he could identify it. He rarely ventured into the countryside. "I should get out of town more often."

Adèle took the hamper off him and placed it on a tree stump. He wandered the glade, whistling softly, following a speckled butterfly. Behind him, Adèle spread a green and red tartan blanket. 

"Perfect," Aramis said. "I was hoping it'd be tartan."

"Brigadoon kink?"

"I went on lots of picnics with my first love. It's left me with a Pavlovian response to tartan blankets."

Adèle raised an eyebrow. She reached for his hands and pulled him close, rubbing herself against him. His cock, already half-erect, twitched.

"So it has," she said. Her smile turned wicked. "We should do something about that."

Aramis stepped back. "We will," he said. "But, first..." He looked her up and down. Her spaghetti straps had fallen, leaving her shoulders bare. She pouted, hands behind her back, gazing up at him through half-lowered lids. He longed to kiss the hollow of her neck, to work his way down her body...

"I want to lick every part of you," he said. Adèle hummed her approval. Déjà vu hit Aramis. He frowned, turning away.

"What is it?"

"I don't think that's my line." Aramis put his hands on his hips. "I mean, I think someone said it to me."

"I'll thank them later," Adèle said. "After you've licked me all over." She unzipped her dress, let it fall to the ground, and stepped out of it. She wore only lace bikini knickers, in a warmer pink than her dress. "Who was my benefactor?"

Aramis had remembered. He'd been on Athos's bed, entirely free of tension, and Athos had spoken the words quietly, in that aristocratic drawl of his. Aramis flushed all over at the memory.

"A beautiful man with an incredibly talented mouth," he told Adèle, cupping her breasts. "You'd like him."

"I already do."

Aramis kissed the top of Adèle's ear and eased the tip of his tongue into its whorls. She shivered. He nibbled her lobe, careful of her tiny pearl earring, and moved on to her neck, licking and sucking. She arched her back. Her hands tightened on his shoulders. Aramis hummed and circled his tongue slowly, wanting to find the exact place Adèle was sensitive. She dug in her nails. He stopped circling to suck, and was rewarded by a murmur from Adèle. He kept sucking. Her breathing deepened as she relaxed into the sensation.

Aramis ran his hands down Adèle's back, luxuriating in her sun-warmed skin. He placed one palm flat in the small of her back and the other between her shoulder blades and held her close, his mouth still on her neck. Adèle sighed and pushed her fingers through his hair. His scalp tingled at her touch. He closed his eyes. The scent of honeysuckle and the taste of Adèle mingled. 

"Every part of me?" Adèle asked, breathless.

Aramis remembered Athos taking his time: sucking fingers and toes; using his teeth; licking Aramis's spine. "Mmm," he said. "Every part."

He moved downwards, taking Adèle's nipple briefly into his mouth before kneeling. He brushed his lips across her knickers, loving the bounce of her hair under the lacy fabric, and lapped down her inner thigh. She swayed and grabbed his shoulders.

"Maybe I should lie down?" 

Aramis handed her down to the blanket. She stretched out, every bit as beautiful as he'd imagined she would be. He brought her hand to his mouth and kissed her palm before sucking her middle finger, letting his tongue play up and down it. He teased her: using his mouth on her hands, working up her arms, licking her neck again. She squirmed, whimpering.

He took his time, loving the way Adèle alternately reached for him -- pulling his hair or gripping his shoulders -- or let her arms fall limp across the blanket. He slid her legs apart and knelt between them. She smiled at him.

"Please, Aramis..."

He bent and touched his mouth to her wet knickers, breathing in her smell. He lapped the fabric, lace rough on his tongue, flicking over the top of her clit. Her taste made the blood rush to his cock. It swelled, constrained by his tight trousers. He longed to take himself in hand. He swallowed, brought his attention back to Adèle, and pushed the crotch of her knickers aside. She looked exquisite: a symphony of delicate pinks. He licked the full length of her pussy. She arched her back, pushing herself up into his face, her hips off the blanket. 

He took the opportunity to pull her knickers down, shifting position so she could move her legs together. The knickers snagged on her left heel; Adèle laughed and kicked them off, then wrapped her legs around Aramis, pressing warm wetness onto his stomach. He stared into her eyes, eased her legs apart again, and slowly bowed down to her.

He worked on her clit with tongue and lips, building a leisurely rhythm and making her breath hitch. She moaned. He sucked her clit into his mouth and pushed a finger into her pussy. She arched, gasping. He maintained his rhythm, tongue and finger working together, not hurrying. He could feel and hear Adèle's every shiver and whimper. When she spoke, her voice was high-pitched and full of need.

"More..." 

He rubbed his other hand down and over Adèle's rim.

"This?" he asked.

"Yes," she breathed. "Oh, please, yes..."

Aramis circled his index finger, feather-light. "Lube?"

Adèle stretched towards the picnic basket. "Olive oil?"

"How very seventeenth century." 

"I packed it for the salad, not me."

Aramis poured oil into one palm. The smell reminded him of Athos; of oiling Athos's skin and seeing how Athos looked when utterly relaxed. Aramis's cock, already hard, throbbed. He bent to Adèle again: slid two fingers into her pussy, licked her clit, and eased an oiled finger into her arse. She pushed down, moaning. Aramis used her movements to guide his rhythm, speeding up only when she was ready. Her cries began to crescendo. He sucked her clit. She grabbed handfuls of his hair. He kept sucking and lapping his tongue against her, pushing his fingers deep inside her.

She cried out, grinding into his face. He maintained his rhythm while she tensed and spasmed. His cock strained against his trousers. Adèle pulled his hair, called his name, and fell back. He relaxed, easing his fingers out and resting his head on her belly. They lay together, listening to the sounds of the wood, as Adèle's breathing and heartbeat returned to normal.

"Ohhh," she said. "I think I have a bit of a crush on your beautiful, orally fixated man."

Aramis nearly censored his answer -- it didn't seem chivalrous to tell one lover how much he liked another -- before remembering Adèle's approach to non-monogamy.

"Me too," he said. "Quite a lot of a crush."

Adèle grinned her wicked grin and sat up. "You've fucked him?"

"Oh, yes."

She undid his belt buckle. "Tell me about it while I suck your cock."

Aramis closed his eyes, sighed as Adèle took him into her mouth, and started talking.


	13. Chemistry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Porthos wants to punch something, Constance is in the right, and d'Artagnan has fallen behind with the filing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Athos's drinking is the backdrop to this chapter.

The corridor outside the first aid room smelt of grazed knees: handwash, TCP antiseptic, and sticking plaster. Porthos, pacing up and down, was transported back to his childhood. He had to remind himself not to limp.

He'd fallen over, or been pushed over, a lot as a child. One foster mum had taken to keeping a box of plasters in her cardigan pocket so she always had them to hand. Porthos remembered perching on her kitchen table to be patched up, with the Queen looking down on him from a photo cut out of a newspaper's silver jubilee colour supplement. Her outfit had been the same pale pink as the plasters.

D'Artagnan sat sentry on a chair next to a door, his long legs stretched out and marking one end of Porthos's pacing. His hair curtained his face. Behind the door, Athos faced a breathalyser test. Athos, Porthos's comrade in the great escape to pizza. Athos, his friend.

_How long can it take?_

"Can't you stand still? You'll wear a furrow in the floor."

Porthos clenched his fists. "If I stand still I'll punch something."

D'Artagnan shrugged, glancing at the painted breezeblock walls. "Go ahead, if it'll make you feel better."

"What did Headmaster Richelieu say? The exact words."

"Why do you keep asking?" 

Porthos thought about the way he'd greeted Athos that morning. _"How drunk were you?"_ he'd said -- shouted -- across the staffroom, for anyone to hear. He had no idea about the alliances at this school; no idea who might have a grudge against Athos or want to earn brownie points with the Head.

"I think this is my fault," he said, choking on the words. He yanked his tie off and absently looped it around one hand. "I was mouthing off in the staffroom and it must have got back to the Head."

D'Artagnan pushed his hair back, shaking his head. He spoke quietly. "The Head isn't in today. He's at a conference in Oxford. I sorted out his PowerPoint slides. So much bad clipart..."

Porthos gaped at him. "Isn't in? But you said he'd asked Athos to take the test. Random test, you said. School policy."

D'Artagnan looked away. "I called the doctor."

Porthos closed the distance between them. He loomed over d'Artagnan. " _You_ called the doctor?"

D'Artagnan pushed himself to his feet, almost tripping over the chair, and backed away.

"It _is_ school policy -- compulsory testing if there's cause for suspicion. I told you it was random because I didn't want anyone to know Mr de la Fère might be in trouble."

Porthos closed the distance again, raising his tie-wrapped fist. "In trouble? Because you called the doctor?"

The first aid room door opened. The metalwork teacher, Ms Bonacieux, slipped out, closing the door soundlessly behind her.

"Quiet, you two," she hissed. She touched a finger to Porthos's fist, raising an eyebrow at its wrapping.

"Do you know what he did?" Porthos asked, hiding his hand behind his back. He unwound the tie and stuffed it in his pocket. 

Ms Bonacieux shepherded them down the corridor and through a set of double doors. 

"He called the doctor," Porthos said, pointing at d'Artagnan. "The Head didn't authorise this, _he_ did. The temp."

D'Artagnan bristled. "I'm not going to be a temp for much longer," he said. "Headmaster Richelieu has talked about giving me a permanent contract."

"And that's why you did this, is it? To curry favour? You little worm."

"Mr du Vallon!" Ms Bonacieux planted her legs wide, thrust out her chest, raised her chin, and faced Porthos. "Behave yourself. My year 10 detention class has better anger management skills."

Porthos opened his mouth to defend himself. Ms Bonacieux cut him off with a gesture. They'd reached the science department. The labs were empty; the corridors stunk of bunsen burner gas and something acidic that stung Porthos's eyes. He blinked.

"Sit," Ms Bonacieux said, motioning to the floor. He sat. His knees cracked when he crossed his legs. Ms Bonacieux turned to d'Artagnan. "You too." D'Artagnan dropped instantly, and with rather more flexibility. Ms Bonacieux smiled. "That's better. Now, Mr du Vallon, what is so important that you started a shouting match outside a room where one of our colleagues is undergoing a difficult consultation with Dr Lemay?"

Porthos felt his face warming. He had no justification for shouting. He spoke through a thickness in his throat. "I... I'm worried about Athos."

"We're all worried about Athos. That's why I asked d'Artagnan to call Dr Lemay."

" _You_ asked?" Porthos's voice rose. He stopped, took a breath, and apologised.

"That's better," Ms Bonacieux said. "Now, I assume you're here as Athos's friend?" Porthos nodded. "Can I trust you to show some discretion?" 

Porthos's face burned. His behaviour in the staffroom had hardly been discrete. "I've learnt my lesson," he said. 

"What did you tell Mr d'Herblay?" D'Artagnan asked. Ms Bonacieux threw him a quizzical look. He explained: "Mr d'Herblay, Mr du Vallon, and Mr de la Fère had a meeting scheduled."

Ms Bonacieux turned her gaze on Porthos.

"I didn't tell him anything. Only that Mr de la Fère couldn't make it, and that I didn't have time."

"You told Mr d'Herblay you didn't have time for him?" Ms Bonacieux's voice was cold.

"Didn't have time for the meeting," Porthos said, racking his brains to remember the exact words. _That is what I said, isn't it?_

"And you didn't follow it up with an insult? On his looks? His reliability?"

"Uh..."

Ms Bonacieux shook her head. It looked more like pity than anger. Porthos hung his head. Had he behaved badly to Aramis? 

_I asked him out, isn't that a compliment? And how did he repay me?_

_"I wouldn't in a million years go out with you, Porthos du Vallon."_

_Did I deserve that?_

He thought about it. The flyting sonnet. Insults in the staffroom. Insults when he asked Aramis out. 

_Crap. I totally deserved it. I'm an idiot._

Tears prickled. He dragged the back of his hand across his eyes.

"Acid," he said, waving his hand to indicate fumes. "Always hated chemistry class."

"Don't rub your eyes," Ms Bonacieux said. "You'll make it worse."

"I'm not sure I could make it worse," Porthos said. He dabbed his eyes with his tie, turning the mulberry fabric black. 

D'Artagnan tensed to rise. "I'll run to the first aid room for an eye bath."

"He'll be fine," Ms Bonacieux said. "Don't interrupt Dr Lemay."

"Dr Lemay." Porthos said, jumping on the change of subject. "What's he doing to Athos?"

"Talking to him, mainly," Ms Bonacieux said. "About treatment options. Athos had been drinking in school this afternoon."

" _Drinking in school?_ "

Ms Bonacieux and d'Artagnan nodded, expressions serious. Porthos looked from one to the other. 

"And that's why you called the doctor?"

They nodded again. 

Porthos crumpled his tie in his fist. "You were absolutely right. I'm sorry I was an idiot earlier."

"Apology accepted," Ms Bonacieux said. She slumped against the wall, her shoulders down. "I hated having to report Athos."

"What's going to happen to him?" Porthos asked.

"Suspension at best, if he agrees to a treatment programme. Immediate sacking, more likely."

"Only if the Head finds out," Porthos said. "Have you filed the paperwork yet?"

D'Artagnan shook his head, looking to Ms Bonacieux for support.

"He can't be in school if he's drinking," she said.

"No," Porthos said, standing, "but if he takes time off for treatment? I've got an idea. We'd need to persuade the doctor to keep this confidential..."

Ms Bonacieux straightened. She smiled. "I'm pretty certain Dr Lemay will listen to me."

Porthos continued: "...and we'll need access to the timetables so we can work out a rota for covering the library while he's away."

D'Artagnan grinned, jumping up. "I've got the timetables!" His face fell. "But... should we be doing this?"

"Athos is a great librarian," Ms Bonacieux said. "Have you seen him with the students?"

"I've heard the way the baby gays talk about him. He's their hero. Well, him and Harry Styles, and Harry Styles doesn't give them books."

"So you'll help?" Porthos asked.

"I'll help." 

They high-fived, laughing. 

"There's only one problem," Ms Bonacieux said. "Athos."

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! It's been a while!
> 
> I'm not going to promise a regular update schedule, but let's see how things go over the next few weeks...
> 
> I cannot believe how much brilliant fic you've all been writing. Catching up is going to be such good fun :D
> 
> If you enjoyed this please let me know. I love getting kudos/comments/subscriptions :)


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